No God on Sunday
by Misdiagnosed Ghost
Summary: The band strikes, and one's holding the microphone with tears in her eyes, while those around her partner up and laugh and whisper and sway – listening to her drown in her own words, "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The other stares heavenward, watching ghost far older than she; instead of counting stars she counts scars left over by the war.
1. Chapter 1

**No God on Sunday**

 **Summary:** _The band strikes, and one's holding the microphone with tears in her eye, while those around her partner up and laugh and whisper and sway – listening to her drown in her own words, "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The other stares heavenward, watching ghost far older than she; instead of counting stars she counts scars left over by the war; she can only recite prayer._

 **Aries "Courier Six."**

 **I**

 _The girl kicks at the fence, testing the durability before she leans into the structure. Hands folded over, and a dirt-smeared grin later, she peers up at the older, taller vagabond who happened to stumble upon her father's bond-owned settlement. The fence creaked with the added weight, but a witty little laugh takes up that annoyance._

" _Never seen you around, stranger. I would know. I know everyone who happens to break bread on my daddy's property, and you don't look like any tradesmen I know."_

" _I'm new in town, ya dig? I've been travelin' for a good bit now. Thought I'd lay down my roots here for a bit." The man's smile is crooked, and he leans into the girl's space by baring his own weight against the fence. "Considerin' that I'm new, do you mind showin' me around, little lady?"_

" _It'll be a pleasure, stranger."_

" _Soda Pop."_

" _Your name is Soda Pop," the girl inquired with a chuckle, "That's a different type of name. My name is Jamie. Jamie Leigh."_

-x-

She's drunk on Vegas lights, seduced by the drawl of a band and the roaring crowd; the joint smelled of burning cigarettes, smothered aroma of cheap shots – and cheaper smiles. Dull eyes of gray, the pearly shine of lipstick etched itself softly across the girl's lips. There's whispers amongst the crowd, a titter of excited giggles followed. Lips are stained with the infamous name of, _"Ms. Six, or the Unlucky Mistress."_ The girl in question merely smiled with the attention, pleasantly waving down a few women who wished to gain her interest.

"Always the belle of the ball, eh, baby? Can't give others a shot to shine?" Swank leans forward in his chair, a hollow-point grin begging the woman to come closer – willingly invade his private space. The promise of danger dances, and the woman can't help the wicked grin that stretched thin across her face. She snuffs her cigarette out in the table's given ashtray, crushing embers like she crushed lives to reach her perch. This woman is godless, and it felt so damn right. Still, she's pretty enough to look at. Pretty enough to risk your own life for.

"Shine as bright as you want. I'm not holding your star, and don't you dare hold it against me. I'm trying to watch the show," Red nails drum impatiently on the surface, fingers fumbling with a clasp and a bronze cigarette case, pulling another Virginia slim. A lighter passes by slender fingers to light a fire and another drag. Gray eyes are hidden behind her own pollution, a lazy smile is a pure gift – red lips that seem to never stain, and kisses never effected the outcome. "How is everything? The casino, I mean. Independence promises an independent bankroll. So, Mister Second-In-Command, just how are my neighbors pulling?"

"Six, baby! Would you expect anything less out of The Tops? The joint is rolling sevens, drinks are flowing in like honey, and your little army is still creepy as hell."

A rich, warm chuckle comes from her chest. Humored, Six falls into his fancy by leaning in close; Swank can smell the dabbed perfume, the smothered ash of her drag, and he's enraptured for the moment by the danger that comes with the sweet package.

"They're not so creepy if you knew them like I do. Sometimes robots are better to understand than humans."

"Is that why you keep yourself holed away in the 38? It gets rather lonely around here when you're not scamming the patrons." Swank keeps his even grin, his high-roller pride. Oh, he did so love that little twitch that kissed the side of Six's mouth; he practically envied his former boss for having a run with the dame – wherever he is now.

"I'm sure you'll get by."

I

 _Jamie Leigh was only seventeen once she left her father's little backwater farm; far too young to die, far too young to understand the notion of love. She ran away towards the north: lips chap with the desert heat, eyes squinting underneath the unforgiveable sun, fingers entwined with another – she found herself not alone. She kept that dirt-smeared grin of hers, and to her company, he found that the most beautiful thing about her. When she left her father's farm, she remembered her father running out with just his shotgun, cursing her name against the wind._

 _Soda Pop is a raider; hell-stormin', sleep-with-the-farmer's-daughter type of man. He ran his own section of raiders; a small little keep underneath a decaying bridge – lit bright by bonfire, and smothered with crude laughter and erratic dancing. He's a man of many trades: lying, thieving, loving, and vengeful. With spirit, he was not the kind of man to bring around a father with a lone daughter. Even with his sinful nature, the raider from the Wastes actually managed to fall in love with that little farm girl in passing._

 _He couldn't give her much, but she gave him the most: Swaddled in ragged cloth, and tucked against bare breast, laid a child in wait; safe underneath a structure of tent, and ten other raiders' just outside - who would be considered her family for now on. She's born during the heat, cleansed with cloth that's been drenched with a ration of purified water. Out in the Wastes, it's a complete miracle that mother and child survived the stress._

" _She's so small," Soda Pop leans over Jamie, close enough to where she could feel his heat and catch his scent of gunpowder and sweat. His dirty fingers hook into the side of the blanket, pulling back to catch a glimpse of his daughter. Emotional, he cranes his neck to press a quick kiss to the sweaty brow of his lover. "She's goin' to be damn strong like her momma. I can't wait to teach her how to wield her own gun."_

 _Soda Pop then laughs, jubilant and giddy; his ego swells when he watches a smile slowly crawl its way up Jamie's lips; he seemed the most alive when he talked about the future. When he didn't talk about the curse of being some poor scavenger out on the Wastes. "Yeah, yeah. She's going to have the quickest aim, possibly the strongest – not like the other bitches in this group who think they gotta one-up the rest. Not my girl. When she gets older – she can start scouting with her ol' man, too. More hands equal more room to grab for caps."_

" _She can't do all that without a name," Jamie noted, possessively cradling the babe closer. "All legends begin with a name."_

" _Way ahead of you. I was thinkin' on that last week, actually; came across this old little vender while heaving through the scraps. Found this magazine, burned at the sides, but decent enough to start a pyre with. What I could tell from the pages, it said: Woman's Health. Maybe it talked about babies – whatever. Came across this page in the book: horoscopes. The word 'Aries' printed at the top in red, underneath that was labeled 'Hardheaded.' It's like a sign from God, baby. Let's call her Aries. Aries seems like a name that would raise all types of hell."_

-x-

They say Death is a woman, marauding the Wastes, hiding her face behind a cloth of thin black. Gray eyes stare back, calculating the loss before her fingers twitch over her sidearm. Death's hair is as red as the fires that swallow up the unfaithful, bewitching the best to fall helpless in her endless, fiery grasp. Her spirit burns on, and it consumes. And all they can see is red and gray and haunting black. All they can hear is breathing and unforgiving laughter and blasphemous slurs against the Legion's kind. Because Death plays favorites, and she wants everyone out. She wants them all to burn.

"Hey, now, you're going to be okay. We're all friends here." Six extends a grimy, bloodstained hand; littered in small cuts and bruising, she tried her best to wipe the gore off her skin with the fabric of her jeans. "This – this is it. No one is ever going to hurt you again." She retires her fast-talking, silver-tongued ways, coaxing a child out from her hiding place amongst the herd of dead brahmin. ED-E buzzed overhead, casting ominous shadows. Boone stood off to the side, watching after the horizon, waiting for any spot of red he could place a bullet in.

Death is an illusion. Death can be gentle and kind – fast and vengeful; she keeps the gifts of life with her forever, and she adores every prize she's won. Death has pulled those who've wronged this child to the grave – kicking and screaming. Hateful slurs, and baleful eyes always lingering. She would willing take the abuse to retrieve innocence again.

When people look upon Six, they can only see Death. And her execution is justifiable.

"You're name is Melody, right? Do you remember me? I'm your friend who helped you get your bear back from the dogs," Six softly inquires, leaning forward on her knees to reach the child's level. The girl is in shock, and she recoils at the sign of blood. This woman has showed kindness; it was only moments ago that she cut the head off the serpent - tossing Caesar's head down makeshift stairs that descended from his personal tent. "How is your bear doing, by the way? I don't see him -,"

"Sergeant Teddy," Melody corrected Six, her voice barely auditable. "Anthony – took him away again after you left the first time. He – was mad that you killed his prized dog." She remains rooted in place, refusing to meet the older woman's gaze.

Melody was always taught to look down, never make eye contact with her betters. She's a slave – everyone is better compared to her. And while she hasn't quite hit ten yet – she was much worldlier than a lot of adults. A little girl shouldn't know what shame is. A little girl shouldn't know how to pleasure a man, but she is smaller and weak, and the Legion made it well-known that she was being punished for being a girl, and for being _weak._

" _Oh,_ Melody. Honey, I'm so sorry. How about I take you somewhere nicer? Around nicer people? I promise you – this time – I'm not leaving this camp without you. You'll never be alone. Besides, women in the Wastes have to stick together, right?" Six lets the girl come out on her own, crawling away from the rotting remains of the two-head creature. "Look here: these are my friends. Boone and ED-E, see? They also want to help you."

"You really mean that," Melody croaked, but the tears never came. She's cried enough. And, honestly, she didn't have the strength, nor the fight in her to cry anymore. "You're really not going to leave me? You're not going – to let them touch me again?"

Six's throat burned, she could feel the bile practically crawling up the back of her throat; she swallows hard, and composes herself. "See this pistol, honey? This pistol just ain't for show. I'll shoot down any bad guy that even thinks about layin' a hand on you. Here, you must be tired. Boone, can you help me lift her up?"

"No!" Melody howled, the moment of hesitation falling back to introductions and starting over; she shied away from Boone the moment he dropped to his knee to hoist her up, skirting away as fast as she could. "No…no. Please, please – don't touch me. I hurt all over. I can't -," her words are heavy with shame, fingers toiling into the earth below her; she holds her stance for dear life, tensing to the abrupt movement of the man standing up and whispering over Six's shoulder. "I want you – to hold me." She points at Six, her hands trembling in exhausted fear. She's begging.

"She's afraid of men, don't blame her," Boone comments, gesturing his hand outward. "Seen it before. Too many times, in fact. What's worse than being killed?"

"Having your dignity forcibly ripped away from you and living with it," Six murmured, and Boone solemnly nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Okay, honey. Don't you worry, I don't mind at all carrying you out."

Melody wants to shrink away once Six drawls closer, inhaling the woman's scent of dried blood and smoldering ash. Six leaves her arms open, patiently awaiting for the girl to invade her space, embracing the idea of holding something as precious as this little girl against her; she's conquered trust, and she refuses to gamble away that feeling.

Melody falls into a dead-crawl, inching her way into Six's arms, and finding the strange, weathered woman warm and safe; her fingers dig into Six's shoulder, tangling in matted, red hair that served as a crownless curl.

Six's wares jingled once she found ground, and the little girl buried her face into the crook of Six's neck once Boone slowly came into the picture behind them, following their stride out; the shock of leaving the camp only caused the little girl to cling tighter to Six, small arms almost suffocating.

I

" _Daddy, this tastes terrible." Aries picks at her meal, thumbing over the oddly colored meat with her dirtied fingers; she grimaced at the texture, and the yellow juices that dripped off her meat and pooled at the edge of her tin plate._

" _It's just squirrel, kiddo. Cut your ol' man some slack. I gave you the bigger piece." Soda Pop mumbled, taking another bite out of the meat that hung loosely on his stick; cooked golden-brown, and a little gammy, the older man shrugged his shoulders. The raider's daughter leaned back on her father's legs, head lulling against his knee, listening to the dramatic, exasperated sigh that followed. "It's meat. It's good for you. You're going to hurt your mom's feelin' if you don't finish your dinner."_

" _I can't help it. It's so gross. Here – you can have it!" Aries lifted the plate over her head, nudging the tin into her father's lap, but he easily denied it with a nudge; the child groaned again when her father leaned over, and placed the meal back in her own lap._

" _Eat it, squirt. How else are you going to become a big girl if you keep pickin' off your plate? You get any smaller and the super mutants may start usin' you as their own personal toothpick."_

" _You wouldn't let that happen! Would you, daddy?" Panic rises, and the older man can only grin when his daughter jolts from her spot, climbing to his perch, plate in hand, and tucking up close; he moved his plate over on his lap to one side, letting his daughter use his other thigh as her own table to set her plate on._

" _Let 'em ugly bastards take my baby? Hell no! But your ol' man can only do so much if you don't finish your dinner." He finishes off his tact of manipulation with a steady laugh, protectively wrapping an arm around his daughter's small shoulders and giving her a loving squeeze. "Can you do that for me? Try and finish your meal? If you do – I'll take ya to go shoot Nuka-Cola bottles tonight."_

" _Really?"_

" _Anything for my girl."_

 _Father and daughter stare off the coast, watching the landscape of decaying buildings catch the sun; lights danced amongst the shattered glass, jutting and jagged. The sun devoured by their crooked world, fading into an endless backdrop. An hour would pass, and a gunshot could be heard off in the distance – but that's the norm out on the Wastes. Children didn't shy away from loud noises, and scavenging was like getting dressed in the mornings._

 _Aries would casually mention that she loved counting the stars, while her father went off to hunt. She told him that sometimes she liked to make up stories that went along with the constellations. She believed that heavenly bodies coexisted as families, working in a benevolent system in hopes in keeping the sky from falling on their heads. She said that the Mommy was the sun, and that the Daddy was the Moon: she linked that back to her own mother and father. Daddy would sometimes hunt at night, and Mommy would wake her up in the morning._

 _For a killer, Soda Pop couldn't help admire the innocence that came from his daughter; sometimes he couldn't even believe that she was his kid – she was too beautiful and noble to be considered his kin._

 _He told her that she was the smartest little girl alive; he didn't lie._

 _-x-_

Melody never wants Six to leave her, the comfort of hands never leaving her own was almost a burning necessity. Counseling is a dreary subject, but the child is accompanied by her savior and her little bot. After unearthing files, rummaging through some backstory, they're able to drag out some type of conclusion from the child.

Melody told Six that her mother was an NCR solider that died during the first Battle of the Dam, while her father devoted his time staying at home to raise her, living off her mother's pensions. Fate can be a fickle bitch, and the Legion loves to prey. With recollection, the child refuses to watch the faces of her doctor and of Six. She goes on to say that the Legion passed out tiny pieces of paper, and her father was strung up on a cross before her. The Legion forced the survivors to watch – just before they were herded like cattle.

Six keeps her promise to the little girl. She'll never be alone again. Slowly, as Six's companions started to go their separate ways, Melody and ED-E were the only ones left at Six's side.

Melody adores Six, wants to know everything about the woman that plays mother in her life; she can barely remember her own, and found if her mother lived long enough – she would be just like Six.

Six smells of sweet perfume, and burned tobacco. Sometimes she smells strong with whisky, and Melody finds that scent forlorn and melancholy; it didn't project Six's greatness to her. The smell usually associated with long nights, and hollowed crying - perfectly filed nails wrapped around the long neck of a bottle, with a strain voice that pleads in the darkness, " _why?"_

The demons go to sleep at night, and the sun rises with new possibilities, curiosities about a huge and void establishment. To Melody, if one closes their eyes, things tend to get better once you open them again. Six looks happier in the mornings, beautiful; her hair is curled, and her makeup is carefully lined – lipstick perfectly pressed. She instills the New Vegas vibe, and Melody is just as excited to stand by Six's side.

Behind the glass, Melody can see men come to the entrance of Six's casino, heavily banging on the surface. ED-E buzzes overhead, his beeping seeming eerily like boredom – like he's been through this before. With the 38's defenses, she shouldn't fear the intrusion, but she can't help the way she scampers back to the elevator, hiding behind the securitrons and asking for Yes Man to appear.

"Oh, geez," Yes Man chirped, the interface of the screen donning his face; a telling, forever grin that never quite matched up with his voice – rather his tone. "Seems we have company! Unlucky for Six, it's not the pleasant kind." Melody hides behind the giant pinchers to Yes Man's mobile frame, fingers lightly touching the cold clampers.

"Is he dangerous?"

"Is he dangerous? Benny? Boy, is he ever!" Yes Man laughs at that, and the clarification only causes Melody to cower; she could deal with robots with male voices, but not the actual human being. Robots didn't want anything out of her, and the man on the other side looked like he was ready to swing. "Benny and Six absolutely hate each other, though she never told me why she kept him alive. Why, he's the same guy that shot Six in the head – with my accidental assistance."

Benny taps harder on the glass, calling, "Pussycat, I know you can hear me in there! Get your pretty-self out here!" Melody shutters; she could see him through the glass entrance, but he could not see them.

"Ohhh. My bad. I probably shouldn't have told you that last, tiny, minor detail." Melody couldn't measure the weight of Yes Man's apology, but she accepted it with a grain of salt. At least she knew _who_ caused the most trouble with Six.

"Good going, Yes Man," Six finally emerges from her empty bar, pulling ledgers that are tucked securely under her arm; Six's heels clicked against the floor, a humored expression etched thin into the windows of her gray eyes. "You playing daddy was never a good idea."

"'Playing daddy' was never programmed into my network, Six. What I am programmed with is: security, and boy, are you running this casino! Wow, not a single soul in this place to waste their hard-earned caps!" Six can only smile, pacing the floor with confidence; her hand reaches Yes Man's side, and she pats his mechanical arm with affection.

Six would often state to Melody how much she liked robots better than people.

"Better check what the sonabitch wants. Knowin' him, something more than a little chat."

"Right you are, Six. I will humbly be awaiting your return. Don't worry, my schedule is flexible! I only serve to please," Yes Man's interface dimmed, and his once cheery outlook is replaced with a gruff expression of a military man. The change left Melody to quickly detach from the robots arm, and quickly catch up to Six before her hand ever graced the entrance.

"You're really not going out there, Six? Are you?" Melody asks with acute urgency, wanting to bar the entrance with her own body. She couldn't stand losing someone again.

"Well, aren't you the cutest? Listen, sweetheart. Benny may be ugly to look at, but he ain't ever going to get the jump on me – if you're thinkin' that. Benny knows his place – and that's at the bottom of my heels."


	2. Chapter 2

**No God on Sunday**

 **Summary:** _The band strikes, and one's holding the microphone with tears in her eyes while those around her partner up and laugh and whisper and sway – listening to her drown in her own words, "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The other stares heavenward, watching ghost far older than she; instead of counting stars she counts scars left over by the war; she can only recite prayer._

 **Mabel Day "Lone Wanderer"**

II

 _A hollow mind should not exchange pleasantries with a hollow heart. Not while the world closes in on you – not while you bundle up your entire life in soft covers, a bottle of scotch hidden in your lab coat and a few wrinkled photos, because that's all you're allowed to bring inside with you; the doctor's hands shake when he stands back from the vault doors, watching the metal monstrosity close them in their forever-tomb._

 _James holds stoic, blue eyes shifting nervously, lips faded and chapped by the air of his old land: the outside. He stands under illuminating, florescent lighting that are constantly buzzing, blinded by the ominous serenity in which his new dwellings hold. And where he stands with science, he stands with God, praying silently to himself to bless his wife's soul, and prepare for his daughter's better days: proper education, a roof over her head, and clean, cycled water._

 _Virginal, heterochromatic eyes stare up at him through the cloth: one crystal blue, and one hazel. A lovely deformity blinks up at the good doctor, and he can only sigh over the outcome; he tells himself that he'll get through his days as long as the same pretty, mismatched eyes stare up at him every day, sweetly asking for his approval and his love._

" _This is not a charity case, Doctor James. Do not mistake kindness over necessity. We need a doctor, and you better live up to that." Vault issued boots click together, a blunt sneer stitched into place, the Overseer stands by his terminal; a normal-height, Hispanic male with salt and pepper hair leers over the Wastelander and his offspring. "I'll have my Mr. Handy guide you down to my Pip-Boy programmer, Stanley. There – you'll be fitted with your official Pip-Boy, and shall receive your first assignments via interface. Do not make me regret this decision."_

" _You won't. I can assure you," James can only hold his daughter tighter to his chest, breathing calmly against the warmth, because his daughter is the last line to his sanity. "Thank you, sir."_

 _Vault 101 was never meant to open, but it opened to a doctor's proposal and a wail from a baby._

-x-

Her father stares back at her through the glass, and all he can do is smile back; he's dying, but he's dying in the most surreal way. An abstracted goal, wise-stricken eyes wanting to observe his most prized creation: his daughter. She's banging on the glass, frantically clawing down the surface. He presses his hand to the glass, wanting to hold his little girl one last time – wanting to calm her. He wanted to tell her how proud he was of her again; she's done a whole lot of good with no reason behind it.

But this is the real world; life has already used up all its happy endings for fairytales in scarred and charred pre-war books. His story, his legend, is either a tragedy, or a travesty – even though this was no laughing matter. He was bound to die, it wouldn't be a good story if the hero didn't die at the end; he just couldn't stand the idea of dying in front of the girl who called him ' _her hero.'_ The hardest part of dying was leaving her – not the constriction in his lungs, nor the steady drum of the Reaper's cold embrace; Death comes to him like a gentleman – quiet, charming, and lonely; he only prayed his late wife didn't think the same thing while she passed the veil that separated life and death.

"You can't! You're all that I have left!" Her voice is faint behind the glass, slamming the butt of her rifle against the pane; she's all out of bullets, and he knows wasting clips in the Wastes is a rookie mistake. He can hear the call of Doctor Li, urging his daughter to come along, to help escort the rest of the surviving doctors. "It was supposed to be you and me! You promised! What about our new life together? Oh God, you promised." She's choking on her words, knees wanting to slam into the ground.

Life is a terrible place when you're stranded out in the post-apocalyptic Wastes, without even a friend to add to your forgotten name. Because what's worse than death? Being forgotten.

He can only whisper, "Run."

 _II_

 _Mabel is only five, and she believes that the world is out to get her – out to punish her for some little past-life event she may have been involved in. She swears it by her father's name. Swears it by her mother's favorite scripture and the golden cross necklace that garnishes her father's neck. Swears it by the burning tears that sting the sides of her eyes, and the gentle quiver of her bottom lip, while she cries into her father's lab coat._

" _You are not strange, love," James softly consoles, fingers slowly drumming up and down his daughter's spine; she can feel the drag of his facial hair against her cheek, and she nuzzles into that familiar comfort, the lulling sense her father naturally casted upon her. Mabel's fingers curl into the rough fabric, holding on and never wanting to let go, because she knew her father would never let go of her._

" _They said my eyes are weird. They said they're ugly. They said I was turning into a mutant. I never want to go to class again." With that confession, James can't help the mirthless chuckle that escaped his lips, craning his head, and listening to the steady hum of his daughter's morbid cry; children could be cruel to the unusual, perhaps it didn't help the only friends his daughter could snag was Freddie and Amata._

" _You are not turning into a mutant, Mabel. Chin up, honey." Mabel refuses to see reason, refuses to listen to her father's coddling voice. "Your mother gave you those eyes, and she sees everything the same way that you do. You're a perfectly, healthy, beautiful little girl."_

-x-

The Ghost of the Wastes stares onward, over voided skies of smog and pollution, troubled dreams put to death; America once stood proud, once claimed order – or, so that's what propaganda tells her, pasted against cobblestone and ruin, smeared in the blood of America's children and crude graffiti that scream, " _FUCK YOU!"_

There's a constant, distant hum; there's always noise that could be mistaken as dreaded silence, a weak mind conspiring to the end. Mabel covers madness with the static from her Pip-Boy; Three Dog always muttering away about all the good she's done, fighting the good fight. All the lives she's claimed. She listens, because he's the only thing in her life who congratulates her – and he never calls her by name. Never whispers to her at night, softly repeating, "Mabel," against her ear; his voice doesn't chase away the nightmares. But that's all right. She doesn't dream anymore; the radiation robbed her of that, murdering to survive also contributed.

Haunted, mismatched eyes squint against the blackening horizon, watching the moon dance across the heavens and the smog devour it whole. Fingers curl over steel, and she fights the war that night is so hell-bent on pulling; she watches the flames of her bonfire flicker like stars, casting shadows she hardly flitches over anymore. She inhales the toxic fumes, and calls this hell a humble home. A home she wants to die in. A home where she constantly questions herself, because her morals eat away at her to the bone and she's done desperate things just to make by.

Dogmeat lays at Mabel's boots, ears flicking to every small sound and every subtle breath his master makes, dreary eyes falling shut; his nose snuffs against soot and toiled dirt, ash thick in the air. There's no hope out here, only graves filled with fallen heroes and broken tales – walking over corpse and their shallow holes, flooded with waste and gore and tainted waters. Vault books tell lies and damning truth: where they say all is dead, but not everyone is dead out here.

Mabel is tired, she hasn't slept in the last twenty-four hours; she scrubs at her eyes with the side of her wrist, then regrets the action once the corners start to burn with whatever dirt she accidently rubbed in.

Sometimes she wishes she was blind. Sometimes she wishes she was never born. Because she can't cry anymore, and she can't hide forever – making home wherever she's accepted, and wherever the food doesn't try to kill her.

She comes to a conclusion, in her silent madness, that this world would constantly keep pushing her, screaming at her to stretch to the far ends of the Earth.

Some days, the shotgun in her hands seems too light. Some days, she's tempted enough to place the barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger: she romanticizes the cool steel upon her lips, the emptiness in her gut, and Dogmeat looks up at her with his own deformity of mismatched, forlorn eyes – judging her. Mable tells herself: that she's just another nameless grave in the making, lost in the great open of the Wastes.

The land has changed her, raped her of her virginal, vault-brainwashed mindset. Still, she recites a dead religion's passage in her mind. Over and over again. And carries it like locked chains on her being until she drowns, because it's the only thing she has left of her family. Left from a mother who died with the beginning of new life, and a father who mourned everyday with the gift of cleansed water in his hands.

"Revelation 21:6. Revelation 21:6 -,"

Now, it is the moon who blinds her, and she can only berate herself in her subtle, festering weakness. _How dare she be so selfish to think about suicide?_

 _II_

 _Her father braids her hair in colorful, bright ribbons; calloused fingers entangled in crownless curl, a gentle hum placed in his breast, and the good Doctor James feels almost lighthearted._

" _The prettiest girl in the vault," he tells her, and he has never been known to lie. Not yet, at least; Mabel's hair is lopsided, pulling on one side a little harder than the other, but she doesn't mind. Not while her father is near, and she can hear his gentle tone from behind; her father pulls a rare smile even while her tenth birthday looms near, and her mother's deathbed anniversary peeks over their happiness, preying on them like a gentle ghost, a stained memory._

 _Mabel's fingers skim over glossy pictures, constellations telling tales, and pulling her inquisitive threads together; she wants to know how big and vast the sky is, and how many stars she could count from dusk till dawn. Her picture book depicts dying stars and lonely nova, and shimmering, bleeding galaxies she could fall asleep under – the consuming, quiet darkness that seemed to flood the never-ending skies. For now, she spends her time in her father's company, indulging in the idea of letting her father teach her how to dress and act like a proper young girl, with proper young girl taste while she read her early birthday gift – dreaming dreams she could never imagine to come true._

" _Is that book any good? Jonas said he found it in supply. Looked old. Real old." Her father looms over her shoulder, fingers still making work with a loose braid that was sure to fall from its band in a few hours. Still, the single father tries his best. He tries to fill the role as mother and father – he's sure he is making a mess out of both of his roles._

" _The pictures are beautiful, dad. Look at this! So much pink, I didn't know the sky could hold so many stars – or color. They look so – unimportant in our vids. My, people back then were surely lucky." Mabel holds the book closer to her face, and she keeps the image sacred in her mind, squinting behind the thick rim of her black glasses._

 _Her father keeps a steady grin, tired eyes watching the delight and inquisitive nature take root in his daughter._

 _Today is going to be a good day._

-x-

"Miss Mabel!" Arms wrap around her waist, but she finds nothing malicious in this subtle act of kindness – a welcoming gift from one human to the next. "I've missed you so much! Vera's got me working, glad to see you're here to give me a break." An innocent smile falls, bright eyes staring heavenward. For the first time, in a long time, Mabel feels welcomed – the feeling almost evades her completely, and she feels robotic in a sense.

Mabel smiles, soft and hollow; she pats little Bryan Wilks on the shoulder, then gives him a comfortable squeeze. "She's giving you honest work. And I bet you've made well on your end to help your cousin out." It takes her a moment to string together a proper sentence; she hasn't spoken to anyone decent in so long. The Wasteland is long and vast, and it doesn't make well for educated conversation. She feels socially inadequate.

Bryan quickly nods, not wanting to let go of his weathered hero; he balances himself on her boots, pressing his grin against her stomach. He considers Mabel family. He considers a whole lot out of her; if he had a sister – she would have been just like Mabel. "Yep! Vera finally trusts me enough to help clean out the rooms after the guests leave."

"My, working up in the world, eh boy," Mabel inquires, and it sounds like she's highly amused. A pleasant turn since Bryan Wilk's biggest hero always seems to be frowning, or staring off; she doesn't seem so vacant when she mildly jokes. "Hard work deserves a drink, kid. Nuka-Cola on me. I got the caps to spare for the brave working class." To make a point, Mabel grabs the sides of her trousers and jingles the fabric till the faint sound of aluminum caps clanked together.

 _II_

" _Boys will be boys," Ms. DeLoria tells the good doctor in her drunken state, gripping onto the door frame with shaking hands to hold her height; her jumpsuit is barely pulled together. The phrase does not bode well with James, and he tightens his fist till they're white by his side, listening to the frightening tremor of his daughter's muffled cry. Mabel's dapping the blood away that drips from her nose with the side of her wrist, staining her sleeve a dark blue._

"' _Boys will be boys' will not teach your son to keep his hands off my daughter," James speaks calmly, but his eyes tell a different story; a baleful one which involves protectiveness and heady yelling that could wake up the entire hall. Doctor James would never strike a child, but Butch made him damn-well close to reconsidering his moral standpoint. "Mabel, come here dear, show Ms. DeLoria what Butch did to you."_

" _Dad, it's – okay." Mabel's voice could hardly be heard with her mouth pressed to James' lab coat, leaving behind the evidence of ruby-red against solemn white. "Really." Her voice is urgent, and it gives Ms. DeLoria pause once she sees the tiny, stringy, blond haired child peek behind her father. It quickly sobered her up once she saw the child fully, sicken to the display of submission, face beaten, and pride under check._

" _It is not OK, Mabel. This should not be going on. Honey," James' lips thinned, his calm personality almost eerie to the third party; the doctor seemed cold, but Mabel counters that emotion with fear and utter devotion. Right now, however – standing in front of her bully's mother – she feels betrayal; she could have gone her entire life without conflict. Without ever mentioning this situation, or what led up to the conflict. "You're better than this."_

 _Mabel does not feel special enough, so she hangs her head and waits for the drunken berating of a madwoman. "My, God -," Ms. DeLoria mutters, hands falling away from the structure of her door to the sides of Mabel's face, thumbs tracing hollow cheekbones – trailing and wiping away stray blood droplets. Mabel can pinpoint the moment of awe in the older woman's features, sheer anger gracing features and betraying the next. The emotion seemed almost foreign on the woman. Everyone was so used to seeing oblivious stupidity on Ms. DeLoria. "My Butchie – did this?"_

" _I'm afraid so," James answered, and the woman swallowed hard. "We – just wanted to let you know. I'm not happy, but it's up to Mabel if she wishes to accept an apology. The way that I see things: it's hard to forever hate someone in close arrangements such as the vault. Better to target the problem now, than later."_

 _Ms. DeLoria nods, fallen prey to complete shock. "I'm so sorry about this. If I had known -," Butch always seemed so docile around her, sweetly calling her 'Ma.' She wondered if the absence of his father was finally taking its toll, or – her addictive personality, and a romanticized love to a liquid that makes her forget all. Her tired eyes fall upon the mismatched color of the child's, and she could tell she was uncomfortable under her hazy, glossy glare. "If only I had known." She finally confirms, pulling back from Mabel slowly._

 _Ms. DeLoria assures the Day family that her son will not cause any more harm. Mabel hardly believes it when the next morning rolls in and she sees Butch sitting at his desk with a blackened eye._

 _This was only the beginning._

-x-

Mabel's pinning in map coordinates, fingers fiddling away with her Pip-Boy. Bryan Wilks sits at her side, chugging away a freshly-popped Nuka-Cola and picking through the yellowed fat of his meal that Mabel bought for him; his work boots swing back and forth, creating a rhythmic motion that knocks against his stool and earns him a steady glare from the barkeep on the other end of the counter, and a subtle smirk on the woman next to him. Bryan is oblivious, and that's why Mabel doesn't mind when he hangs around her during her quiet, normal moments.

"Find anything new out on the Wastes?" Bryan is starved from conversation with his hero, talking in between hurried bites; he sops up the dripping, yellow fat with a stale piece of bread – living behind the saying _"Waste not, want not."_

Mabel's shifty smirk slowly falls upon a pleasant smile, nodding once and shifting her weight comfortably on her stool. "Inquisitive as always, kiddo. I like that. And you're right for asking so." She gives up on the idea of looking for better leads on her Pip-Boy, listening to the heavy static from her radio with Three Dog's voice howling over the intercom. Mabel turns, rummaging through her thrown-over rucksack and pulling out three battered books like they were stolen holy relics; with bent spines, and papers falling out from the seams, they almost seemed holy in her eyes and Bryan took that as a sign to respect whatever she thought valuable.

"It's funny to find what super mutants would leave lying around in the mud," Mabel mentions. But she didn't find these treasures in the mud. She found them in a sack of gore and several skulls with bodies long gone and lost amongst the turf; she tried her best to wipe the blood off the covers with her shirt, but these books were already fragile with two-hundred years' worth of war and fire. Cleaning them up almost seemed fruitless – that with stale blood hugging the corner pages, water damage on most of the pages, yellowed with age, and soot smeared on the covers.

"What are they about," Bryan doesn't want to abandon his free meal; he glances up, leaning forward to get a better look at the books that Mabel left on the diner counter. He's almost afraid to touch them; they're weathered, and looked like they were existing on borrowed time. A simple turn of the page could be the book's undoing.

"All types on things. Look: this book talks about astronomy. You know, when I was around your age, I had a book just like this. I spent hours looking over the stars in my book."

"You can see the stars now," Bryan adds.

"Yeah, you're right. But I didn't have the luxury of looking up at the sky and seeing the stars in the vault. All I was permitted to see was florescent lighting." Mabel's chuckle is warm, and Bryan feels completely stupid for forgetting that Mabel grew up in a vault.

Mabel moves the book, and shows the next. "My dad was a doctor, you know? Had all types of books detailing the human anatomy in his study. I remember sitting in his chair and looking through all the pictures and reading the small passages under those pictures, 'cause I wanted to be just like my dad when I grew up. I wanted to be the next vault doctor."

"Can you still be a vault doctor?"

Bryan worries when Mabel pauses, but breathes a sigh of relief once she pats her prized possession and moves it away. "Things happen for a reason, kiddo. I was never cut out to be a vault doctor, anyways. But, hell, like I was going to miss snagging the text from this book."

"Good," Bryan grins, "I would miss you terribly if you stopped showing up." Mabel nudges Bryan's shoulder with her side, and the boy laughs with the contact.

"The last book was out of impulse. Children's book. Cinderella. I thought the art in the book was worth saving." says Mabel, moving the last book over. She considers the book, then shrugs when she puts it in front of Bryan. "I got this for you, though. Maybe you can tell me how the story goes."

Mabel almost can't help the laugh that comes deep from her chest when she sees the expression Bryan pulls: wonderment, and completely baffled. The boy quickly takes the book up in his arms, because any gift from his hero was well worth it.

Even if he turned his nose up at the idea of reading old, pre-war books.

 **(Please read the following)**

 **A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update. College has been hell, and unforgiving with the assignments.**

 **I'm writing both our leading ladies with depression, but I wanted to show different spectrums of it: humor, and downright depression. Six (Aries) is more 'mad' than anything; she tends to mask her mental breakdowns with humor and laughing and drinking. Mabel is a doctor's daughter; she doesn't believe in drinking, or smoking and in fact hates the smell and taste; her depression is more suicidal, or she doesn't care if she dies – she's already lost everything. Aries is outgoing, where Mabel is reluctant to conversation, and could be described as cold. (Growing up with social anxiety.) But she does like checking in on Bryan and his cousin, Vera.**

 **Why I'm writing this: As someone who is going through deep depression, I hope to write both of these women tastefully and with respect to my readers who may, or may not be going through the same problems. Writing this fic does help cope.**

 **Warnings: This story will cover many things: depression, rape (mentions of), prostitution, sexual situations, and in some forms gore. I will apply warnings between my breaks – so if you want to read the story without stumbling on something you feel uncomfortable with, just check the warnings.**

 **Big thanks: I want to say thank you to those who took the time to scan over my work; I will admit that it still needs some work, I'm only doing this fic to brush up on writing – and more of a personal goal to vent.**


	3. Chapter 3

**No God on Sunday**

 **Summary:** _The band strikes, and one's holding the microphone with tears in her eyes, while those around her partner up and laugh and whisper and sway – listening to her drown in her own words, "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The other stares heavenward, watching ghost far older than she; instead of counting stars she counts scars left over by the war; she can only recite prayer._

 **Aries "Courier Six."**

III

" _Daddy, why do you have the number thirteen on your wrist?" Aries inquires, bemusement falling on her lips like a second language; she turns her father's large hand over in her two smaller ones; tiny fingers brushing over old blue ink and white scars that had faded over time and hardship. The old raider's daughter is too pure to be handling him, and he's too evil to claim such a beautiful treasure._

" _Always with the damn questions, eh kiddo?" Soda Pop sighs, scarred lips quirking in amusement; his free hand rustles her auburn hair. "No worries, your ol' man is happy to oblige. Look here, baby girl. I was about fourteen when I started runnin' with my dad on savaging. He had the same mark, told me it was an unlucky number. Also told me: to hell with tradition, it's lucky to him. My ol' man, your grandfather, was a mean sonofbitch; he'd gut you for a damn Nuka-Cola if he was thirsty enough. But he knew how to fight, how to find the best stuff in the most unlikely places. He said this number carried him far across the Wastes. So I followed his example, and look where I am now!"_

 _Aries squints underneath the harsh sun, pulling her father's wrist close to her face for examination. She wasn't buying the number bit, and only frowned for just a second when she considered the gravity of luck and the number etched into her father's skin._

" _Will I get this mark one day?" Aries pokes at another question, and her father rumbles a soft chuckle; he pulls his hand back, and pats his knee a couple times to shake the dust off his trousers._

" _That all depends on you, baby girl. And if your mother doesn't string me from a lamppost beforehand."_

-x-

" _I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth."_

 _-Revelation 6:8_

Hell is hidden behind the cold depths of unwavering gray; a hollow-point grin fell neatly into place. Hell is a pretty little thing: wrapped in satin, warmed with whiskey, and burning bright like the end of a stamped cigarette. Lovely, long fingers entangle each other – content to look idly bored, but on-end and amused. Benny can see her across the table, peering through the pollution of her Lucky Strike, and he pulls his own brand of a jack-cheap grin, offering her something to drink with the click of a shot glass.

"Heard you're running an orphanage rather than a respectable casino," Benny jokes, but it riles no laughter out of the woman who sat adjacent from him; she keeps her steady, dangerous smile – blowing smoke rings from pearly-red lips. "Where's the pussycat who would choke a fella after giving him a bang? That's the broad I fell in love with."

"Who said my orphanage would be respectable? I was thinkin' about introducing a few of the street-side hookers and a round of blackjack in the mix. Have the kids runnin' the slots – wearing cute little suits. A real swingin' scene, I think. Yes Man can play daddy, while I play Queen to this pathetic, free kingdom."

"Queen of Harlots. You'll rule mortal, but someone is bound to kill you eventually," Benny mentions, sliding over Six's drink; the glass clicked with the contact of perfectly-kept, red nails. "You're sick, pussycat. I can never tell if you're just pulling my leash, or you're singing to the choir. But, damn, I love it when you talk like that." The woman on the opposite end finally laughs, mirthless and sick. Benny wouldn't pin her heartless – just out of her damn mind. He supposed – being left in the middle of nowhere with a hole in your head could do that to a person.

"Legends never die, Benny-boy. God knows I don't play hero, either. I'll just descend into a bigger and brighter kingdom: Hell," mellow vexation could be found in Six's undertones, sweetly spun and venomous; she's angry, but plays it off well with humor. "Why the fuck are you here, Benny? You're giving Swank over there the sweats. And here I was - hoping the Wastes made you its bitch. Ah, wishful thinkin'. You gave my baby girl a scare with all your damn bangin' on my doors." She downs her drink, and the burn doesn't faze her outlook. She's all smiles and balled hatred, trigger happy in every respect; her finger twitches over her shot glass like a trigger, body ready to burn and flex to the feel of ammunition leave her hand and the call of a fight at her heel. He stares at the old ink of her tattoo on her index finger, engraved with the notorious: _13._

"Didn't mean to give your kid a scare, _Momma._ Business is business, your little desert flower needs to get over it. 'Sides, I'm not concerned over playground blues – I want to know how you're running my city. My casino. My men."

"Last time I checked: this isn't your city, your casino, or your men. Not anymore. It's mine. And however I run it is none of your damn, daisy-suit, business. In fact: I don't see why you called me here. We have nothin' to talk about 'sides a bullet in your head – and I see none of that happening. Well, not yet."

"You're a little girl playing an old man's game, pussycat. Won't take long 'til the business swallows you alive. Greed? I know all about greed. You may think that you have a hold on all the other families on The Strip, but they're just waiting to catch you with your pants down. Can't trust any of these finks," Benny leans in close from across the table, keeping an even face, a careful façade. Swank on the other end of the bar can see this, and he frowns; he's seen that look before on his boss. "You can trust me. We have history. Give me a cut. You've done me proud so far, but I can teach you on how to make this gig really swing."

"'We have history," he says," Six mocks, abandoning her empty glass to cross her arms over her breast, "No good history comes out of being shot twice in the head and left for dead out on the Wastes."

"Well, you're not dead. Six, baby - that was over a year ago. Get over it. If you really hated me – you would have choked me out on one of my bar counters."

Six snorts, slowly shaking her head, keeping that infamous smile. "Get the hell out of my sight, Benny-boy. You've stated your case, and now I'm stickin' with mine. Leave, and let the Wastes devour you. If I wanted a second-in-command, I wouldn't want a nodding sycophant who would only stab me in the back."

"What makes you think I'd stab you? I own a gun."

"You've tried shooting me. Look where that got us."

Silence settles among the two again, giving leeway for Benny to ask, "We're meetin' again tonight, honey baby? Same song and dance?"

Six laughs at that, loud and hard; oddly, she feels like crying when he asks that. She nods anyways, validating that they'll meet again in his room. Even if he'll leave her again.

They all leave.

III

 _Mel is the oldest woman in their raider family; she teaches Aries to read and write; her mother can barely spell out her own name, and her father can only piece together a few syllables and complete sentences before he's completely lost in whatever text his daughter shows him._

 _Mel can be a vengeful woman; lingered in the thick smell of smog and toiled earth. Her beautiful, dark ebony skin toned down by the smothered ash she never washes off; hair dreaded back in lovely, crimson beads that Aries loved to pick at and play with. A dark warm eye catching the light of the sun. Mel is missing her other eye, sealed shut with an ugly, pink gash; she said her own mother gave her that prize. Said her mother wasn't the sweetest drunk in the world. Mel said all this with a bitter smile, laughing away like it was some joke she could pass around the bonfire at night. However, Aries never found the joke funny._

 _Aries' mother told her that it was Mel who helped bring her into this world; she was the only woman nice enough in the group to take her on, while the others found Aries' mother too green – too childlike and spoiled to be hanging around them. It was Mel, and Mel's wife, Tali, who really pushed Aries' mother in making a name for herself within the group._

 _Mel's the warmest woman Aries has ever touched; her larger hands wrapping around her own, smiling down at the child as if she only belonged to her. Mel always told her, in her raspy firebrand voice, "You're my sweet little desert flower, right baby girl? Let Aunt Mel braid your hair."_

 _Aries' mother, Jamie Leigh, would laugh, "You're too soft on my girl. She isn't goin' to learn much with all this kindness."_

" _My desert flower," Mel replied with pride, "Well, she doesn't have to take this world with kindness. I'm teachin' her to show kindness now, because once you've done pissed someone off – they don't believe the kindness anymore. So be nice. Be nice 'til there is no reason to be nice anymore. Then destroy them."_

 _-x-_

"The band really knows how to strike, eh baby girl?" The instruments are too loud for Melody, but she bites her tongue from saying so when she looks up at Six with a huge grin on her face – peering through the haze of her own smoke. The older woman waves the pollution away; the little girl merely nods her head, and smiles back. Her fingers twiddle in her lap, watching the water in her glass vibrate with the excessive sound.

Six really took her time pulling Melody's hair together, finding joy in brushing and pinning her hair back. Dresses in her size seemed almost foreign, children in lavish dresses just didn't fit the New Vegas' vibe, but Six had the time and the money, and she was willing to shove her caps down anyone's throat just to have her way. Melody never felt like she deserved the luxury; she feels completely uncomfortable to the sensation of someone being nice to her.

She's dressed in velvet treasures, a hint of blush marring her dark complexion. Excessive for a child, yes. But Six loved to spoil as much as she loved to destroy and dominate; she let Melody have first picks to her jewelry box. The girl chose nothing too flashy, a sting of age-tinged pearls wrapped around her small neck.

"You'll never find a better show other than at The Tops!" The man who sat adjacently from Melody proclaimed rather loudly, nudging Six's elbow and winking at Melody; Melody didn't mind Swank, but she could had done without him.

However, he's never given her a solid reason to hate him. He was nice enough, always kneeling to her level to talk, or passing her a few caps for a Nuka-Cola bottle at the bar when he wanted to speak to Six alone.

Trust took time. But how can you trust a man who competes casinos with other families? Passing blood-stained caps across knife-picked tables, scarlet grins passed around freely, lit up by the dusty glow of a swinging lightbulb in a dark and gutted hotel room. It's a man's game – or, that's what the men who run Gamorrah say. Six liked to say otherwise – pointing her gun and laughing manically at any fucker who questioned her leadership skills.

Six did the same, however. Six was just as evil. But Melody loved Six, so she always reconsidered Swank's attitude. His festering kindness that almost seemed excessive – and fake. And almost _too_ New Vegas for her.

"Hey! What's a man got to do to get served around here? The kid needs another round of water!" Melody is unsure on how Swank could be louder than the music and the chatter of people who talked across flattops, and gargled alcohol; she barely remembers drinking all of her water, nervously, constantly taking sips from her glass so she wouldn't have to make small talk with Six's table guest.

"You okay, baby girl?" Six leans into Melody's space, leaving the child to shiver with the close proximity. Swank's too preoccupied hounding the waiter for a round of whiskey and a glass of water.

Melody will never be completely "OK," but she nods her head, smiles, and pretends to enjoy whatever lifestyle she's forced into.

"I'm just enjoying the music, Six. I'm doing just fine."

 _III_

" _Queen of the Bottle Caps, right here!" Tali yells, grinning madly with a rusted rifle in-hand. "That bottle didn't even see you comin'. But there you go! Shootin' the heads off 'em. Rally up boys, the boss's daughter is going to make us all rich one day!"_

 _The men in the group snorted, clicking Nuka-Cola bottles with their leader._

" _You salty puta, pretty wife, pretty kid. While you're an ass-ugly, sonofabitch father." Second-in-Command, Deer, nudges Soda Pop's arm, inclining his head in the direction of his leader's daughter who stood next to Tali; shaking, slim fingers hold onto a pistol – eroded and old – it was her grandfather's. It'll be completely hers one day._

" _Ah. Get out of my face with that shit," Soda Pop jerks away from Deer with a hoarse laugh, shaking his head, he gives a sigh of content; they've been traveling the Wastes for two weeks now, trying to find better grounds, trying to find somewhere safer for the women in their group to raise their own children – somewhere where he could watch his own. "Your fuckin' scars are givin' me nightmares. You take one damn flamethrower to the face, and now you're getting all cocky with it."_

" _Soda Pop," Jamie warned. "Would it kill you to be a little nicer?"_

" _Yes. Ah baby, don't give me that look. Can't tell what's worse: Deer's fucked up face, or your damn nagging." The Raider Leader lazily leans in close to his wife, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to pull her in close to the warmth of bare chest. "It almost physically pains me to hold back my sarcastic comments while you're around. And you're going to protect him? Deer? Baby, did you not just hear the man call me ugly? I tell ya, I get no damn respect. None. Not from my scavenging mate, and definably not from my wife. I got feelings, ya know? Deep down."_

 _Deer grins hard with that, hollow-point and stretched. "Listen to your ol' lady. I'm almost tempted to off you, and put her in charge."_

" _Fuck off," Soda Pop freely laughs, keeping his arm wrapped around his wife, his index finger hooked in the rim of his bottle, holding the glass loosely._

 _Silence plagues the group for a moment; they watch Tail line up Aries' next shot. A new generation of scavengers among them._

" _Do you think we'll ever find some place nicer? You know – for Aries," Jamie inquires, quiet enough to be shared amongst Deer and Soda Pop._

" _Can't be healthy on a kid to be traveling all the damn time," Deer adds, "But we all did it, girl; it can't be as safe like it was on your papi's farm. You married into it, now you're with us." He's sympathetic, but also a realists. If Jamie didn't want this lifestyle, she should had stayed with her old man._

" _We'll find somewhere, I swear. Just long enough 'til we know our little girl has enough spirit in herself to protect herself. We're raiders. We're never meant to stay in one place for so long," Soda Pop pats his wife's arm, leading them both away from Deer who stood with a crooked, smug look._

 _-x-_

"I received a letter. Funny little thing. Heartfelt, really," Six motions around a sturdy chair, chipped with age and creaked with weight. Her heels click across rug, digging into the surface of stale blood; the room smells of death and chemicals, bleach intoxicates those in the room, but it only serves to spur Six on. To truly piss her off. The smell of decay reminds her why she's hold up in a dimly-lit room, illuminated with the faint glow of a swinging lightbulb and the electric buzz of her pip-boy. "Clanden, you silly man. Want to know what this letter is about?"

Swank carefully watches the malicious grin stretch itself across her features, gray eyes lit up with utter excitement and morbid disgust. He stands to the side, holding a single dainty yellow heel; broken and worn, the heel is practically peeling back by the glue and faulty stitching.

"Here baby," That's all Swank says when he hands over the heel; Six holds up the footwear to the man strapped to the chair, fidgeting under the strength of his bindings. Clanden sweats out his frustration, nervously biting at the bottom of his lip till he breaks skin and can taste the copper at the edge of his tongue. Still, he pulls back the dry skin with his teeth, trying to concentrate on anything besides his embedding execution.

"Remember this? Certainly not my color, but it makes it no less important," Six keeps her haunting grin steady, close and demanding; she stalks her prey by coming in close, eyes locked onto shame and fright. The man under her gaze fears for his life, but he had no problem taking from women who felt the same emotion before they were cut short. "I think you do. I think you remember it well. Not too long ago I received this very special letter -,"

Six pauses, fixing her poster, she places the heel upon the counter with care. Pulling back, she jerks her head in Swanks direction; seamlessly, the Floor Man walks to the adjacent end of this well-hidden little torture room, pulling away a sheet to reveal a familiar sight: a camera.

Dark and gray, Swank starts up the old camera with a flip of a switch. The sound of film being feed into the wheel alarms the group that they are being filmed; the sound is a lot more ominous than what Clanden is used to. Of course, he was always on the other end rather sitting on this end.

"The letter is signed by a boy, addressed to me. He told me he knew about me through trade routes that would pass by his grandmother's farm; he heard I could fix his problem, said his momma worked in New Vegas, asked if I could help find her," Six tightens Clandens restraints, still keeping that damning smile that would follow his abstract gaze; he was listening to Six's sweet voice in all its falsehoods, and damned her to hell in his mind. "Well, I wrote the boy back. I asked him about his grandmother's farm. I asked him how old he was and what's his name. And then I asked him, 'is there anything that he could remember that your mom loved wearing.'"

Once Six finds the bindings intolerable and straining upon the man's flesh, she turns away from him with an amused little chuckle; she rolls out her equipment from a leather slip, silver equipment glittering under the dusty light from overhead. "I visited his farm. He told me his name is Tony. He's eleven-years-old. And living on his grandmother's farm is bearable enough, but his mother went to work in New Vegas to help pay their way through a not-so-honest-living. He doesn't know what his mother did for a living, he doesn't know that she gave him everything by making a living on her back. I never knew the woman, but I told him his mother was a respectable woman, a lucky woman for having such a smart and strong boy, too. He told me her favorite color is yellow, and that she loved wearing her yellow heels while she ran off for work. Every. Day. He told me he loves his mother very much, and would appreciate it if I could bring her home to him."

Six pulls a blade from its slip. The stained and jagged edge of a blade shines under the light; it's dull and rusted over. She tests the weight in her hands, eyeing down her weapon of choice before nodding her head almost enthusiastically. Clanden can barely handle Six's smile now; he's sick and tormented, eyes held wide and hollow. His shoes skid across the floor in the attempt to break from his bindings, but that only proved to be fruitless and only made Six laugh out with his vain struggle.

"You see, it's going to be very sad for me to tell a little boy that his mother will not be returning home to him. Clanden, the world is a very evil place – of course you would know that, correct? You were the one involved in that little, tiny, crime. And what did you do? Well, you took your time like any artist who loves their work. You took your damn time in front of a rolling camera and tortured this young mother for hours, did you not?" Clanden is silent under Six's evil glare until she paces back over to him, snapping his head heavenward by the hairs of his head, curling her nails into his scalp. He's blinded by the dreary light, still listening to the maddening sound of a rolling film hum in the background. "You will answer me when I talk to you."

"I did," Clanden murmurs, vocal cords strained and burning; he can feel the pressure of cold steel pressed to his throat, tracing the hollow of his throat, and he waits patiently for Six to take the plunge. He knows better. He knows that Six won't kill him just yet – that's just how she is. She wants to make a statement – even if she has to carve it into his skin and bone, and lay out his wrongdoings before him, spelled out in blood. His blood.

"Wonderful! Then you'll understand what I'm about to do," Six pulls away the blade, "We're going to make a little video. Just like you did with the girls under my rule. My city. You see, I'm planning a little fund. All proceedings I make from your snuff video will go into that little boy's farm. While you did rob him of a mother, you will be paying his way through a proper education and putting food on his table. See? Now your life wasn't a complete waste, after all."

Six places the edge of her blade back at the hollow of his throat, tilting his head towards the camera. He swore he was looking at the Devil herself. She leans forward, turning till the side of her face pressed against his cheek and they both looked at the camera. She was smiling, and he was sweating.

"Clanden, baby, smile for the camera. You're going to be a star!"

 _III_

 _Aries loves Deer like she loves Mel and Tali; he plays the roll of angry and sarcastic uncle rather well. Deer can speak another language like he can speak Aries' language; loud and boisterous, soothing the next. He's from Mexico City, a foreign little place that Aries never knew existed. Never even heard of._

 _She's only known life from the lands that surrounded her crumbled – yet sturdy – bridge. A home that's supported by concrete, smeared in old blood that's older beyond her parents, polluted waters that trickle a tiny stream in front of her hobble and pocketed with tiny bullet holes; sometimes, if Aries dug deep enough in the ground, she would pull casings from the dirt like tiny seeds – adding them to a growing collection she keeps in a tin can that her mother found her._

 _Aries is allowed to sit on Deer's knee while he cleans the groups' guns, performing ritualistic maintenance by dismantling and reassembling weaponry; he makes sure to tell her to watch closely, she'll be taking on his trade one day – reminding her that she'll hold a huge part in their raider group once she's older._

 _Aries doesn't understand what he means, but she automatically takes pride in that knowledge when Deer leans down to smile at her, ruffling her fire-lit hair. Deer was never nice to anyone. He always yelled and cussed and blew his cigarette smoke in the faces of his subordinates. Aries found no flaw in that man, besides the distant look in his troubled eyes and his woeful smile that tugged against his fire-warped lips. He treated her like sunshine._

 _Deer told Aries that she reminded him of his own son, and when she felt left out on that bit of information, she frowned. "There's other kids my age?"_

 _Deer holds that smile, fingers stiffening under the feel of cold, rusted steel; he places a gun down that he's been trying to modify for the past hour on his age-ridden workbench, and leans back in his chair. "Si,_ _mi corazon. My son, my – hijo. His name is Carlos. But he doesn't live with me. Haven't seen him in – oh, fifteen years."_

" _He's older than me then," Aries frowns, and Deer can't help the amused laugh that escapes him, riddles him with a different type of emotion that seems so far off from her Uncle Deer. "Well, where's he at?"_

" _Back in Mexico City with mi amor."_

" _Well, are you going to see him again? Will I ever meet him?" With innocence laced, Deer wraps a single arm around Aries, holding her strong and keeping her supported. Automatically, Aries turns in his lap, and tires to wrap her arms around her uncle, nudging her nose against his warm chest, familiar to the smell of burned ammunition and desert sand._

" _Mi Corazon, I'm looking for him. And when I find him, I'm sure he'll love you just as much as I love you. You have that special somethin' about yourself that keeps others close."_

 _It'll be years later while Aries is running off for that courier interview when she asks Mel for any bit of information she had on Uncle Deer's son. Maybe with her newfound connections she would finally be able to locate Carlos. Trace a name. Something. Uncle Deer would had appreciated that a lot._

 _Mel would give her that weary sigh, folding over an old magazine, and sit forward in her ragged recliner and explain Deer's problem._

" _Deer met your daddy and grandfather when he was twenty-five, came struggling out of the border with a bunch of other settlers. Deer said he and his girlfriend had Carlos around the age of fifteen. Mexico is hell, baby girl. In my youth, I've only been around the border, but I sure didn't stick around long enough to suffer the hand of Satan reachin' out towards me. When Deer still had his wit, he told us his son and girlfriend were sold from underneath him by a group of Cartel – whatever he called 'em. Robbed him during the middle of the night, set him aflame - leaving him to die in his shack while the group hauled off his young son and girlfriend like cattle. That's why he looked fucked. I'm thinkin' the Wasteland finally got to him, gave him that small bit of hope, a terrible delusion, that maybe he'll be able to find his son. Who knows? We sure didn't want to ruin his outlook, so we never swayed him to think differently. The whole group knew that his son and his pretty little girlfriend all belonged to some shallow grave. That's humankind for ya. It just wasn't – our place to remind him how terrible the world is. We like to believe he already knew."_


	4. Chapter 4

**No God on Sunday**

 **Summary:** _The band strikes, and one's holding the microphone with tears in her eyes, while those around her partner up and laugh and whisper and sway – listening to her drown in her own words, "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The other stares heavenward, watching ghost far older than she; instead of counting stars she counts scars left over by the war; she can only recite prayer._

 **Mabel Day "Lone Wonderer"**

 **IV**

 _Mabel adjusted the thick rim of her black glasses, pushing the frame up the bridge of her nose while she kept her head down low, reading her galaxy book; she's already traced the illustrated stars with her fingers a thousand times now, but it doesn't hurt to continue to familiarize and dream about seeing the real deal overhead. Her short legs dangle off the end of her father's office chair, fingers carefully flipping through the yellowed pages with care. She feels safe in this white room, listening to her father scratch away at his clipboard with a pen and the filtration system cycle air._

 _Today is different, however. While her father is usually stoic, and almost unmoving in expression, he can't fight off the grin on his tired face. Mabel notices her father coming closer, leaning over and pretending to fumble over paperwork that sat in a neat pile on his work desk, while she preoccupied it. Once or twice, he gives the top of her head an affectionate pat, fingers running through a sloppily-done blonde ponytail. Mabel can tell he's debating something; the corners of his eyes crinkle._

" _Dad?" Mabel finally gives, head snapping up, turning in her father's chair. She's curious. And like all great minds she inquires the most simplest of things, because everything should be met with a proper answer. "Are you OK? Your face – looks weird."_

" _Did you say my face looks weird, love? I have no idea what you're talking about. This is my face. Mind you, I was young once, and not all of us age with grace." Her father keeps his silly grin, something so unlike the doctor of vault to usually show. She's never seen him smile this long. "One day you'll inherit this same face. Everyone says you do look like me. This is your curse."_

 _Mabel pulls a face, nose crinkling in slight worry and she sighs. "Dad," she repeats his name, dragging out his name longer this time. And after a while, Mabel can't help the smile from spreading on her own pale face; something infectious must have been set loose in the clinic today. She felt really good seeing her father this happy for this long._

" _Quick as a whip," Doctor James notes, finally rummaging through his lab pocket to pluck the desired item he wanted to show her. He meets her at the edge of his work desk, vault issued boots clipping across blinding white tile, "Look here, love. I think you're old enough to have this. You would have received it last year, but parting with this was almost unbearable. In fact – I know, now, you're ready."_

 _Mabel's smile drops as her father rounds his desk, and drops in front of her seat; his knees press against the floor, catching her eye-level conversation. He wants to study her facial features, keeping eye contact with her as his hand touched hers, releasing his prized possession so freely it almost burned. It was her mother's cross; it shined dully under flickering florescent lighting, and weighed practically nothing in her hands. The weight on her chest felt heavier with the burden of her mother's necklace in her grasp. She knew her father, personally, unclasped the necklace off her mother's neck the day that she died. The day that she was born._

 _She tells herself that she should had never been born. She holds no comparison when it came to her mother, and she'll continue to believe so till the moment she dies. She wished she actually knew her mother, then maybe she would have a solid reason to cry and understand why her father drinks in his clinic the night on her birthdays. After all the festivities are put to bed, and she's settled in with another year under her belt, their unit falls dead quiet._

" _Daddy?" Mabel questions his solid motive, shaking her head and trying to deny taking something else from her father; she's already robbed him of a wife._

" _Here, honey, let me help you." Mabel tries to lean back in her father's chair, almost to a point of wailing 'why?' Her head continues to motion side-to-side, rejecting his forced offer. "Your mother would have wanted you to have this. My, I have the prettiest little girl." Once he fastens the necklace around her throat, he leans back to admire it. His hand lingers to the side of her face, brushing her cheekbone with care. The mellow look in her father's eyes causes her panic, and her throat constricts the moment the dainty chain rests around her neck._

 _Again, Mabel doesn't understand why she's crying. She never knew her mother. She could never live up to her legacy. But the forlorn look in her father's aged face sets her off and she sobs, grieving for her father's plighted pain and the many years of being alone. She shifts away at her father's touch, the palms of her hands rubbing across the painful corners of her eyes._

 _Mabel drops from her chair, meeting her father on solid ground to wrap her arms around his shoulders; she tugs hard, face pressed to his neck and she can't help the pitiful, childlike cry that escapes her in one go. "Daddy -," Her voice trembles, and she feels dreadfully sick. Her stomach turns on her, and she's ready to empty out everything on his clinic floors._

 _Doctor James responds by hoisting his daughter into his arms; she'll never be too big or too old for him to carry. He sways her back and forth, rocking her like he did when she was an infant, chuckling against her forehead, "Mabel, why are you crying? It's OK. We're OK."_

-x-

Mabel adjusts her glasses, not believing the distress signal that transmitted her way and disrupt her music. Her face breaks out in a small smile that quickly morphed into something maddening. She's laughs out loud, voice echoing off the crumbled terrains and urban decay. Her boots stomp the grounds, crunching broken glass, riling up Dogmeat when he watched his master come way into full-blown mania.

"Are you hearing this, boy? They're calling me! Me!" The ever poise, Mabel Day, the one who took after her father in almost every way, was finally losing it out in the middle of nowhere – trampling up fallen structures, raising her wrist to hold a better signal with her pip-boy. The radio chattered and buzzed, but she's finally able to hold a proper signal and listen to the distress call over and over again. A familiar voice calls out to her, and she feels rather tickled by the opportunity.

Dogmeat jumps around his master's boots, excited because she seems happy. The happiest he has seen his master ever. His tail wagged, and his back arched, prancing around his master's frantic walking, tongue lolled out and panting. His paws bear down on Mabel's boots, and she looks down with a grin, patting her dog's head with a gloved hand; he responds by inclining his neck, leaving behind a solid lick underneath the palm of her hand.

She plans her trip the following morning, backpacking the ruins of the Capital, walking over burned and tattered flags that have blackened with the exposer of warheads and age. She doesn't feel the effects of anxiety until she passes her snug home in Megaton, and approaches the first entrance of her former vault. And like a ton of bricks, she feels surprisingly crushed underneath all this pressure and worry.

She stands there underneath the blinding sun of day; a grubby hand hooked into the strap of her age-worn book bag, while the other keeps firm on the wooden door. Slowly, hesitantly, she pushes against the structure of the door, and it creaks with terrible memories, filtering in unwanted sun that trickles from the opening. She's warm with radiation and unbearable sun. Warmed with weathered hardship and demanding work in wanting to simply survive.

The electric hum of her pip-boy lights her way once she's threatened by the large and ominous structure of the vault door. Walking slowly down darkening tunnels, feeling enclosed by the earth around her and the dampness that surrounds her; the cave lingers in rot and toiled away root. Scrawny vegetation that would never flourish and breech surface.

They say that nature would one day take over the Earth again, but Mabel can barely believe it with the scar that humanity has left behind. Some things are better left to die. Humanity being the first that should have fell.

Her pip-boy shines light on a control panel, warped with age and riddled with dust, she prepares to type the password to gain access to the vault. Calloused fingers lightly clicking away, running terminal numbers that illuminate her facial features.

" _The password is my name,"_ Mabel remembers the familiar statically-induced voice call out to her, urgent and pressed. Mabel braces the unknown for the second time, but this time this was her actual home instead of some foreign landscape that the world laid out to her.

Her fingers dance over the panel, typing out letters, leaving a familiar name come to life.

"Amata."

The vault door rolls, groaning with the weight, shaking away rust that clung to the cogs. Her vault's bright lettering that identified her home turns, disappearing within the slit of the doorframe – introducing her to fake ultraviolet lighting and circulated air. Her heavy boots clicking over a metal walkway.

"Home," Mabel tells herself. However, home doesn't feel welcoming anymore. She seems lost. 

IV

 _Mabel's first kiss is from Freddie Gomez; she remembers how awkward she was. The frame of her glasses pressed against the other party's nose, but the boy only smiles – finding the girl endearing in her own way. She quickly pulls away from this, but he leans forward to catch her, stealing another childlike kiss._

 _Bodies are lit underneath the powerful glow of chugging generators, breath captured with innocence and small heated words that have greater meaning then what they originally wanted to share. They're only teenagers: holding hands and whispered tiny secrets. Just a couple of vault kids scared of the unknown, hidden away underneath ancient war and decay and tainted earth._

" _You're Ok, right? That wasn't too forceful?" Freddie questions with vivid concern, anxiety hums in his chest, and he feels constricted and unable to piece together the proper sentence. The right words never coming to him. He was never quite right to begin with._

 _However, he feels blessed. Why did a sweet girl like Mabel Day allow him to kiss her? Besides Amata, she's the only one who never taunted him by calling him "Freddie the Freak." She actually used his birth name and respected him even with his social anxiety and tiny meltdowns that leaves him heaving in the halls._

" _I'm fine, Freddie." Mabel assures him with a smile, finding a moment to muffle a laugh underneath all this heat and adolescence. She stares up at him behind the glass with mismatched eyes, inexperienced fingers twiddling at the zipper of her jumpsuit until she strikes the nerve to reach down and touch both of his hands. Oh, he adored her deformity more than he let on. More than she could handle. And while he found his own eyes brown and plain, he found hers galaxy-inducing and romanticized her for it._

 _He had to kiss her again._

 _He takes her subtle invitation, slowly backing her against the cold steel of the wall. His nervous, shaking touch leads to her throat, tracing the elegant curve with careful fingertips. He watches her for the moment, babbling words and small phrases of praise, stepping and leaning forward on his own boots to reach him, because she's not tall enough. She finds her own refuge of courage, and snags it, pressing him against a breathless collision when her lips traced his._

 _Once heat and friction is applied, his chemical reaction causes him to hoist her up, fingers curling dangerously under her thighs. The grace of his tongue slowly mapping its way across her collarbone and up the hollow of her throat, leaving them not so childlike anymore – parading them into darker practices that were never considered evil, but natural. Human._

 _Mabel feels him underneath the fabric, arms relax over his shoulders, fingers playing with the hairs at his nape while he grinds into her, leaving heavy pressure. He promises he only wants her. He's always wanted her. And one day he'll marry her, because she was designed for him and he was designed for her._

 _All good things come to an end, however. With the sudden crash of a door sliding back and a group of boys riling in; the intrusion is a surprise to both. Both parties freezing, eyes illuminating with the haunting glow of the generator, breath captured with the buzz of electricity overhead and the flickering lights Stanly has not replaced yet._

" _Well, I'll be. Guess four-eyes has a thing for freaks," Wally pipes up, grinning madly over the discovery. His elbow nudges Butch's, and the boy only stares in disbelief before cackling his own terrible laugh. There's something forced in the lining of his vocal cords. Fist clenched white and threatening._

" _Nosebleed! I didn't know you were so easy to put out! If we had known," Butch adds, laughing over the way the girl awkwardly slides out of Freddie's arms, trying to hide her dignity and the tears of shame that threatened to break her composure - riddling her that little girl she hated being called. Freddie awkwardly moves with that, hiding the telling signs of excitement killed instantly once the gang roared in with the thick smell of cigarette smoke and hair product and musky leather. "Hey, don't give us that look, girly. Not our fault you can't keep your panties on. You should know well enough we go wherever we want."_

 _Butch snorts when Mabel bolts away from Freddie, and once the girl is gone and Freddie is alone with the trio of Tunnel Snakes, they all turn Freddie's way. "Boys, I've decided it's time we allowed the freak into our ranks – after a little hazing, of course."_

 _The leader of the Tunnel Snakes is bitter with his findings, and he isn't sure why. But something told him to beat the Hell out of Freddie for this._

 _-x-_

It's Freddie's father, Officer Gomez, who greets her at the door. Pistol pointed and older looking than what Mabel remembers, he automatically demands she steps back. At first, he doesn't recognize that wide-eyed little girl who grew up by his knee, chasing his son down amble halls with that iconic, snorting laugh. The woman before him is haunted, weathered, covered in soot and grime, leather stained with old blood – belonging to human and monster. Her arms are laden with a shotgun that sits awkwardly due to its size. Mabel only lived this long with wit rather than the toil of brawn. She was Doctor James' daughter after all, and she believed talking before killing.

"Mister Gomez -," Officer Gomez's trigger finger falters, and he has to take a step back to get a good look at the girl under the glow of red emergency lights. Underneath all that dirt and war and hell, he can see her eyes and he quickly berates himself for almost firing on the girl who actually gave his son a chance at a friend. She talks him down slowly, kind words never leaving her while her innocence did. "It's me, sir. Mabel Day."

Eyes held wide, the older man drops his stance and studies the girl fully. A morbid smile crosses his features, head shaking in disbelief, he talks towards the ground, "It really is you, little lady. I didn't recognize you like -," Officer Gomez stops himself, watching the gentle curve of the girl's lips pull up; she's tired and worn, ready to fall over any minute, but he can't quite pinpoint when. She already knows she looks like a woman who's walked three days in Hell, he didn't need to remind her what this vault did to her when they casted her out as a traitor. It was her father's fault. Not hers.

The tired officer hoisters his gun at his hip and he hugs the girl once, giving her a solid pat across her dusty armor that stung his eyes. She returns the touch hesitantly, a far cry from the little girl who would tug at his hand when he returned to his quarters after his shift and his wife was babysitting Mabel, while Doctor James braced the clinic.

Red lights flood the halls, and the two stare at each other under the illusion of "this can't be happening." Sirens are muffled within Officer Gomez's helmet, while the droning alarm slowly sets off Mabel's dawning, festering madness. She holds sanity by the hairs, and quickly gets out her reason of being. She can't completely lose herself in front of the man who watched her grow up normal.

By the looks of her wayward, fleeting glaze, Officer Gomez figured – after all is said and done – this could be the last he could ever see of Mabel. Though, he doesn't voice that. He inquires the obvious.

"What are you doing here?"

IV

 _Butch DeLoria killed Mabel Day's laugh in an extensive period of time._

 _It started in the twilight of youth were he mimicked her jubilant laugh, and told her how ugly she sounded and how hideous she looked when she'd let go in the awe of happiness; wide mismatch eyes that are whimsical quickly fades to uncertainty – tarnished in the afterglow of being self-conscious. Her funny little snort quickly catches the spell of sorrow, and her eyes burn with tears when she watches the faces Butch pulls in her face to over exaggerate her own features._

 _Paul always secretly apologized on Butch's behalf. Her father tells her this phase will pass. Freddie tells her Butch will never lay a hand on her again. Amata promises she'll end it all one day, but Mabel is never quite sure what her friend means by that._

 _As Mabel matures she tends to hide her laugh behind her hand, and sometimes she can't catch herself fast enough. Amata and Freddie always grinned when they heard her slip, and couldn't help their own obnoxious laugh when they listened to Mabel's repetitive laugh echo off the flats and down the metal stairs. And in passing, Paul would flash her a charming smile and a wink, pointing her way to keep her spirits up, because everyone knew that Mabel needed it._

 _Butch would come around and mock her, knocking the books out of her hands, boots pressing into the spine - telling her to shut up; it truly destroyed her when Butch and Wally threw her galaxy book into the incinerator. Laughing fits went from rare to mere extinction, and even Butch DeLoria had a moment of regret. It wasn't fun anymore. She stopped reacting, stopped crying, and simply stared at him._

 _This made him angry. Monstrous. He fucking hated her, and he had no idea why. He had no idea why he had all this anger. He had no right. It was inhuman, malleolus._

" _Sounds like you have a crush on little Mabel," Butch's mother was always running her damn mouth, fingers looped around a neck of a bottle. She's all talkative in the worse of ways. "Growing up with your father wasn't thrilling, but I can't help to notice the similarities."_

 _Butch's father was a mean sonabitch; the man bit back vile, evil comments. Anger close to legendary. He smelled of booze and smothered cigarettes, also had a streak of winning in a game of dice. Liked to talk big, and under mysterious circumstance died in his bed – next to his own wife._

 _Being mean to someone you like isn't normal._

" _Ma, why are you always runnin' your mouth? Dad was a bastard, and you know that. No way I'll never be like him. No way – I'll ever treat my main lady like that, either. Now, c'mon, Ma. Put the bottle and go to bed, you know the Doc told you to cut back."_


	5. Chapter 5

**No God on Sunday**

 **Summary:** _The band strikes, and one's holding the microphone with tears in her eye, while those around her partner up and laugh and whisper and sway – listening to her drown in her own words, "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The other stares heavenward, watching ghost far older than she; instead of counting stars she counts scars left over by the war; she can only recite prayer._

 **Aries "Courier Six."**

 **V**

 _Aries stands there wearing her father's large shirt, bare feet treading over warm gravel. It was supposed to be her bedtime._

 _There's something abstract to the way her father holds her mother; with wide eyes, she's obscured to the very notion that someone wanted to hurt her mother. But here she is: watching. She's too young to understand the gravity of her mother's predicament, but old enough to read the pain that came from her father's face and that her mother won't be getting back up anytime soon._

 _Aries has never seen her father cry; she didn't think it was possible for her father to cry. He was always so jubilant, so kind to her – that it was all too foreign to the little girl, and she hated it._

 _Soda Pop's gloved hands cradle the back of his young wife's head, fingers desperately curling in her hair. His rough, tattooed face pressed the side of Jamie's face, and he heaves with disbelief and nausea. Armored knees sinking into the earth, mastering the art of rocking back and forth in complete grief, unhinged over the amount of blood that stained her shirt and darkened his fabric. He sobs; it's disgusting and unbearable, loud enough to echo through the desert, the entirety of the group stops and watches their leader in his moment of weakness._

 _A tragedy like this was not uncommon among Raiders._

 _Jamie should have never went by the stream to drawl up irritated water alone, and while clean water wasn't an option – sometimes you had to sacrifice and deal with the second best. And while they thought Jamie was capable, and that a ten minute trip from camp to the stream would be nothing, that wasn't the case._

 _Jamie wasn't alone when she approached the stream._

 _Neighboring Raider parties take refuge amongst the filth, breaking deals with different factions, fighting with each other if one Raider's morals didn't match up with another's. Killing a member to set an example with another party was the ultimate; it usually enforced submission, or rally that need for payback that promised worse. Killing all was fair game, and the look on Soda Pop's haunted face was feeling the latter._

" _Jamie, baby. Please. Don't leave me. Don't leave me." Soda Pop murmurs into Jamie's shoulder, the bonfire that flickered nearby merely pronounced the oddity of the color that now dripped over stone and scorched sand; he finds that he hates that color._

 _Jamie wasn't coming back, Soda Pop knew this, and with horrid revelation, his head snapped up from his wife's shoulder to watch his little girl. His teeth clench, eyes narrowing in thought; Mel and Deer takes it as a sign to move by their leader's side and offer to hold and prepare Jamie's corpse for the pyre. Aries takes a step back when her father advances her, finding fear in the offered color of stale blood that kissed her father's neck. He picks her up and he holds her tight, no words are exchanged; his hand presses the back of her shoulder, a warm gloved hand slowly stroking that area, and he kisses his daughter's forehead before he gestures for Tali to come near and to take his daughter away from him. He was desperate in wanting to feel grounded to something, like he had some sense of worth to stay in this damning world._

 _It was just Soda Pop and his daughter._

 _It will always be just Soda Pop and his daughter._

 _There's a change to Soda Pop's expression; he's all hard and damning, body rigid with the weight of the world on his shoulders. When Aries looks back at her father he doesn't look like her father anymore. His voice is reeling and demanding, rallying men and women to his side in a brisk party of revenge. And while the sun wasn't out, and the monsters only seemed to come out at night, he took that chance; his eyes only softening momentarily when they averted back to his daughter's confused and hurt face one last time._

 _They're gone all night, stumbling in come morn with bittersweet victory._

 _Aries awaits for her father to return, watches the way the fresh blood glinted off his armor when the sun bore down; even with the act of revenge, even if he made an example out of any other raiding party who dared to fuck with him or his own, Aries could tell it would never satisfy him._

 _They will forever be one family member short._

 _With maturity and experience in the coming future, while Aries was still trying to wheel in that courier position in hopes to feed her family, he told her once in confidence, "We're not good people. We killed and we deserve the same punishment. And here I am – with a daughter like you. I don't deserve you. I never did. Your mother defiantly deserved better. I'm fucked, baby girl. And I ain't tryin' to pity myself, I'm only speakin' the truth, ya feel me? You know, after I lost your mother, I was considerin' ending it all. But that'd be selfish. Too easy and weak. I'd be leavin' you alone: No mother and no father. Just know that I love you. I know I don't say it often, but I love you more than anything. You're my life. And if I don't have you, well, there'll be no reason kickin' it around on this earth, right?"_

 _Aries knew her father was evil. She's seen him kill and raid caravans down by the broken roads when she was younger and still naïve to the world. She's seen him personally string up bodies, decorating barren trees, watching the blood drip from exit wounds._

 _The smell of decomposition still makes her sick._

 _She knew. But a part of her believes that her father can redeem himself. She's seen a part of him that others have not; she didn't blame strangers with vendettas for hating him with all the wrongs he wrought._

 _And once the enviable happened, she was granted that wish._

 _She sits on the porch of her father's shack, head leaning against her father's shoulder, watching the sun fall. Watching the world end. Solace found between father and daughter._

" _Baby girl, just promise me you'll always return to me. That's all I ask."_

" _I promise, dad."_

 **-x-**

"Are you sure about this, Six?" Melody stands by Six's side; the ominous sounds of the Mojave has the girl on edge, drawing in closer to her caretaker. Her fingers brush the dark fabric of Six's riot gear duster – something as a sign of comfort, security. It's hot and with the sun beating down, Melody wonders how Six could stand being out here in the middle of nowhere, smoldering in her dark fabrics and heavy armor; the material didn't seem breathable, built to last a few centuries and earn a couple bullets; by the burn and scorched hole marks that marred the duster, Melody could tell Six had her typical run-ins.

Melody can't see Six's face, but by the distorted voice hidden behind the gasmask, Six sounded amused; the company they held, Follows-Chalk and ED-E, seemed excited in what Six was ready to show.

Follows-Chalk, Six explained to Melody once, was a man she picked up in her travels to Zion; his affiliation with her caretaker seemed almost brotherly. Innocent, in how he followed Six out in the desert with the promise of adventure; it was pretty bizarre to have such a clad-dressed tribal tailing close on a woman who favored the look of high-roller royalty.

Their friendship is a wonderful oddity.

Melody thought the man talked funny; his sentences leading on incomplete and butchered. His look, marked down in heavily inked dark blue tattoos, told stories of hunting and maturity. He's a tribal, so he's bound to certain quirks that escapes the norm, and it leaves Melody almost questioning; he's a nice man, has a trusting smile, and the little girl feels that if Six could trust him by her side, then she might be able, too.

But he's still a man tied to urges. And that terrifies Melody.

Six holds an audience under the blistering sun, all giddy in her finds, ready to show off the latest weapon; there's a good, solid weight that burdens the woman's shoulder; chrome-kissed and shining dully with age under the unforgiving sun.

"Baby girl, I've never been so sure in my life," Six laughs with that, her head tilting to touch the monstrous weapon balanced on her shoulder; as if the device could understand the value of affection. "It's called the Fatman, mankind's most beautiful, monstrous creation. I'm talking about the weapon that set the bar high in warfare and made God himself shake in the heavens above. The recoil is hell on the joints, but the aftermath is catastrophic. Mmm, that's some damn good radiation. It gets the cancer cells pumping!"

Follows-Chalk whistled, his hands finding proper placement on his hips; he inspects the weapon, impressed by heavy machinery and the goodwill to kill with such atomic strength. The civilized world really knew how to deal business and workout problems.

"Big enough weapon is sure to make a mighty explosion," Follows-Chalk comments, casually, but he can't hide his excited smile; he takes pride, actually. He strides up close to Six, and it makes Melody unintentionally hunker down closer to Six's side; the woman didn't mind. She barely noticed. It was something of a norm at this point. Something teased about around the casinos and terrible dives that the _Unlucky Mistress_ has a successor to take her place.

"You're cute, you know that?" Six nodded her head in Follows-Chalk's direction, straightening her posture to plan her position for launch. " _Mighty_ doesn't cover it. Hold onto those feathers on that hat."

They all held their breath once Six released the almighty. The mini nuke traveled all too quiet, all too sound. It felt like an eternity since Six's finger pulled against the trigger with her shoulder jolting back with the intense recoil; it made her teeth grit, and she frowned behind her mask, watching through her red lens the lingering of her humanlike rapture.

The three humans fell back. ED-E buzzing overhead, flight pattern shaken by the aftermath; they're knocked back by the erupt roar of a warm gale. Melody buried her face into her caregiver's hip, eyes closing with the feel of hard, damaging fear nipping at her heart.

Follows-Chalk holds onto his hat, turning away from the warm radiation and the scattering of debris that flooded their way. He grounds close to the ground, while his other hand grips Six's shoulder in an automatic motion.

Six holds her position, boots skirting over the gravel, knees bending forward to hold her powerful stance. The tail of her duster flutters harshly, whipping wildly. She keeps her hand plastered on her weapon, unmoved by the shift of gravity, shoulder remaining laden under the maker of the End Times. And while she cringes to the forceful push, the mimicry of God's inhuman, unforgiving power to tear the lands apart and leave a scar amongst the earth, she can't help not to be amused; almost laughing madly over the aspect of being knocked back a peg; voice distorted by the hum of her gasmask.

The cloud before them blooms in the distance, mushrooming out, polluting the air; smoke dances upon the sands, scorching everything in its wake. The smoke ascends, and the fires reach out like hands of damned who inhabited Hell, then disappears. It was beautiful. It was perfection wrapped in utter chaos. And in that moment, Six feels she had found the solution to a ghost that's been haunting her: Vulpes Inculta.

She's wiped out her competition. The Legion camp laid buried; shallow, unmarked graves left untouched. Tattered, red flags still fly high over the camp, but it only serves as a reminder of the corruption that bred there; ghosts who stuck too close, their ashes scattered about. There's too much bad blood in Fortification Hill, no one dared to resettle the lot. No one dared to take the passage. Except for Six who stood out in the middle of her personalized graveyard, standing amongst bodies that were left to rot under the Mojave's sun.

There's no honor hunting in the name of revenge, but it sure felt good.

She patrols the grounds, stomping over the decaying bodies of the men she laid out with Boone, but none of them belonged to the fox. None of them wore that greedy smile that made her recoil in revulsion. It leaves Six on edge, expecting the revelation for sweet revenge to come for her at any second; she's dangerously danced with Vulpes before, and they usually matched when it came to blade to blade. Gun to Gun. He's sent his share of Legionary assassins, Six would return his gesture in letters.

" _Thanks for showing this girl a good time, sweetheart."_

She already had Lanius' helmet, Ceasar's fist. All she needed now in her collection was Vuples' dog-skinned hat; she didn't care if his head came attached to it or not. As long as she retrieved the prize by her hand alone.

Though, she preferred his head in the furs, but she was only running on personal preference. _Oh,_ the stories she could share when she talked about owning Vulpes' Inculta's, Caesar's right hand, head. She thought about sending the head to Boone; she knew how much he would have appreciated that.

She wondered if she killed him near the holidays, she would be able to ship the head on Christmas.

Or a New Year's gift, something to ring in the New Year.

That was her Raider blood whispering in on her, reminding her of all the evil she could bring. And with a past she could hardly remember, only her cultural background, she quieted those mad ghosts in her head that told her to do malicious things. She blamed Benny for that; a few bullets never took her down, but takin' a few bullets to the skull – well, that's a different matter. She only knows that she was raised Raider, not too far off from Fiend, but she can barely remember _why._ She didn't dwell on it too much, so it mustn't not been as important as she was letting on.

Six watched the explosion unfold, it was something legendary, and she honestly couldn't wait to use such brute force on that man. The man who taunts her from afar. The man who leaves bloody daggers in front of her casino to serve as a warning. The man who stares behind his sunglasses, belittling her with hollow-point smiles that tried to rival her own.

She'll be ready.

She's always ready.

It's quiet again; Follow-Chalk's hand slowly removing itself from her shoulder, finding his nerve to laugh a little over the force. ED-E buzzed overhead, annoyed about his wind current disruption. Melody still clung to Six, but granted a peek, still watching the smoke dance over the lands.

"Okay. That was fun," Six comments after the calm, "Now let's go fuck up some gecko's day for fun."

 _-x-_

 _Soda Pop murmurs in pain, exhausted by the feel of nausea, sweating out the sickness that left the sheets from under him wet. Aries sits in the corner of their shared tent, little hands flipping through her book again, eyes lingering from the words to her father. Her lips thin with concern, and she hunches forward with that little dread of fear nipping at the back of her young mind._

" _Daddy?" Aries inquires, softly. She closed her worn book and left it at her side. Adjusting position, she crawls her way to her father's side and nudged him with her hand. Soda Pop turned from his side on his back, eyes barely cracking open to stare up at his daughter with a weak smile. "Are you thirsty?"_

" _If you don't mind, baby," Soda Pop rasps out, weakly. His eyes narrow under the light, too sensitive even underneath the white sheet of their tent. He closes his eyes and listens to the drawl of water, knowing that his daughter's small frame was hunched over Jamie's old bucket. Knows that his daughter's hands shook with her inexperience at playing caretaker as she pulled water out with a ladle. Knows that she's awfully scared over his sickly predicament and balances the ladle with trembling hands. He gratefully smiles up at his daughter when she crouches near, encouraging him to sit up and drink; he thanks her, because she's being such a brave girl for him._

 _Brave for their sad little family._

 _A sad little family that biologically held only two. A pair of damaged, bleeding hearts held under the scrutiny of the sun._

-x-

Glossy imaginary of colorful sex, red-haired vixen endlessly staring, gray eyes hauntingly pulling in the buyer. The last issue of a dirty, jerkoff magazine on the tailgate of some godforsaken trader's haul; lavish pornography, worth a few caps even if the pages are slightly worn around the edges. The woman is holding a wine bottle by the thin neck, completely bare for the buyer; the only article of clothing she's wearing are her heels, and even those looked dangerous.

" _Hell and back with Ms. Aries."_ The issue title, dark and bolded, issue seventy.

"Rex, you know Ma would kick our ass if she found out we bought this." Religious teenagers huddle close to sin, inquisitive fingers idly flipping through the merchandise. "C'mon, forget it and let's just buy the bullets Pa told us he needed." The younger of the twins shies away, but his eyes do linger; he's embarrassed to the possibility of being caught.

His brother not so much.

"Kenny, quit bein' a bitch. What Ma don't know won't hurt her," Rex is waving the magazine in his face, a cheap grin fell into place. "Ma indefinably don't need to know about the redhead on the cover who's gonna be spendin' a lot of time under my bed." With his freehand, the teenager makes a jerking motion that sends his brother to recoil back in disgust.

"Talk about a lashing if Ma _did_ find out," Kenny notes, finding the bullets his father wanted more important than the naughty print. The boy looked away, shrugging off his brother's leering, teasing glance. He reaches for the desired box and shakes it once, listening to the tiny rattle.

"Well, Ma ain't goin' to find out." Rex confirms, all ready to exchange his caps for pornography. His posture stagers to the familiar sound of a voice that called out to them from behind, and the boy quickly drops it, almost flings it across the haul. Kenny begins to sweat. The trader by the tailgate gave an unimpressed shrug, slowly chewing on the end of his toothpick, gaze dipped low underneath his hat to block out the sun.

"Kenneth. Rex. It's good to see you two this morning," Joshua Graham addresses the boys with kindness, hidden well with the smoke of his voice and the distortion of the gauze over his mouth; he approached both of the boys, eyes glancing over the hastily tossed magazine piqued his interest. "What brings you both out here?"

Joshua doesn't say anything. He's oddly amused by adolescence. Found it endearing that he was like that in his lifetime; when innocence was merely _innocence._ Kenny's shaking and Rex pretends not to notice his hastily thrown prize; the looks on their faces almost makes him laugh. Kenny is trying to find some common ground with verbal usage, Rex is happy to oblige.

"Good to see you, too, Mr. Graham." Rex is bringing out his rusty silver-tongue, hoping to appease the older man who may have caught them in the act. "Oh, ya know. Pa asked us to run up the hill when he heard another trader pulled into camp. Well, we're just pickin' up a ration of bullets. Geckos keep popin' up around our tent, givin' Ma a good scare."

"That so," Joshua inquires. He puts his amusement on hold, watching Rex slowly turn bashful with a few simple words. Kenny is stricken with fear like a weak animal and tenses up; it left Joshua with a small feeling of guilt, he felt remorseful.

"Y-Yes, sir." Rex nods his head, tugging at his brother's elbow, pushing him in the direction of the trader.

"Here, I'll spot you." Joshua offers, stepping up closer to the boys with his hand buried in his pocket, pulling out his stash of rusted caps.

"That's real kind of you, Mr. Graham, but we're just fine." Rex's struggle on his brother was almost frantic, whispering slurs underneath his breath to spur his brother forward.

"Nonsense," Joshua assures them, "I owe your father. He was all too kind to bring me dinner last night. Your mother make that stew?"

"With the carrots?" Rex inquires, honestly.

"Yes, that's it." Joshua hands the trader his share of caps in favor of the boys; the boys quickly thank him before sprinting down the hill.

After the two are out of sight, Joshua lingers by the tailgate a little longer; he's curious about the magazine, a little taken back by the familiarity that the woman held. He folds the cover over, studying the woman's face with interest. And if he didn't know any better, this woman held a striking resemblance to that fast-talking courier who blew into camp in a hail of bullets not so long ago; he hasn't seen a hair of her in over a year. Only knows she's running a city. That she's claimed her winnings in New Vegas not so long ago.

He offered her a home among his people. His offer still stands.

The magazine gives him a name. A proper enough name. Not a number.

He was so use to calling that woman _Courier_. He refused to address her by the title of _Six._ He didn't think too well on that name. A name only brought upon and romanticize because some uppity fella thought it would be wise to leave her with two bullets in the skull.

She's an enigma with funny quirks, vulgar in her dealings, but she had a good heart when it came to the simple scheme of things. And with refusal, she merely shrugged her shoulders and gave him her most charming, fake smile.

She deserved better than some title. She deserved a name – something tied in with respect than fear and tall tales.

It made her seem a lot more human now with a name.

The old trader by the tailgate watches him, his gaze a little higher with blunt curiosity. The religious folk never really did take an interest to the vulgar; the magazine on his tailgate was often overlooked by them. Right now, the leader of this little gathering, or what was left, was intently staring at the woman on the cover.

The old trader didn't care, as long as he made a sale. He'd sell to anyone.

"That's a damn hard issue to find. Might be the last of its kind," The trader spoke, barely moving from his perch on the tailgate. Joshua lifted his head at that, carefully closing the magazine. "They say that girl on the cover is that Miss who runs New Vegas. Don't know if I believe it, but hell; it's collectible. Found it in an old warehouse outside of New Reno, shielded by those tall mountains. I ain't surprised what comes out of that city; a place like that could make ol' New Vegas blush."

"How much are you offering?" Joshua asks, his voice never wavers. This raises the trader's interest, and he actually smiles at the younger fella.

"A jewel like that? Give it to ya for a hundred caps."

"I'll meet you at seventy."

"Eighty at best. This _could_ be Ms. Six we're talking about."

There's a pause before Joshua slowly nods his head; he tells himself he's only buying the issue to save face with that courier, but something tells him that she would hardly care who sees her; she's just that type of woman.

"You said it _might_ be her. I'd hate to buy something tied to false advertising if it wasn't her. Seventy-five."

The trader mulled over that, his boots impatiently clicking together. "Got yourself a deal, son. Y'all religious folk always tryin' to swindle me. Anything in that fancy book of yours tell you it's wrong what you're doing to an old man trying to make a living?"

"Leviticus 19:32. "'You shall rise up before the gray headed and honor the aged, and you shall revere your God.""

"Well, you best practice your own text, son. I ain't feelin' all that blessed right now."

-x-

" _He's suffering from high levels of radiation. I've tried my best to flush his systems with a syringe and RadAway, but he seems to be past that point of no return," the doctor, who was forcefully dragged into camp, sighs. He's a traveling doctor in his kind, he was just unlucky to run into the roaming band of raiders down by the outskirts of the road. And in exchange for his life, they hounded him enough to look over their leader who has fallen ill. "I'm talking about high doses of radiation. What were you around to cause such – damage?"_

 _The doctor turns over Soda Pop's wrist, pulling the needle from his vein; he looks over to the leader's side while he worked, spying the sad little girl who watched over the ill man. The doctor only prayed that this girl was the man's daughter and not – something else. If that was the case, he wanted to devise a sound plan to get this child out of the clutches of the Devil._

" _Daddy," The girl speaks, softly; her small hand touches the leader's sweating pale brow._

 _The doctor is instantly relieve, but pities the little girl's lifestyle; she's bound to die early out here._

" _I'm here, baby girl." Soda Pop replies, but his eyes refused to fully open. All this damn light was killing him. His entire body ached, feeling the tremors rip down his nerves. "I'm right here."_

" _What you mean you've "tried." I'm still lookin' down at a dying man." The woman with the missing eye and the ebony skin snarls; this woman frightens the doctor more than anyone._

" _We were rummaging this old warehouse. Our leader opted we search through these empty yellow barrels, but me and my wife weren't effected by it." The softer woman replies, lips thinning in thought._

" _Just how others deal, Miss. I'm afraid your leader is looking down the barrel of death," in a moment, the doctor found himself insensitive for speaking that way in front of the daughter of the man, but he held his own. "Or ghoulification, which will be a very long and painful process. My condolences."_

 _The doctor is let go the next morning._

-x-

 _All the kings are dead; so long live the Queen._

The cocktail lounge is quiet, ventilation circling overhead, Vegas lights outshining the stars; Six is alone in that dark parlor, and that's just fine. She rules silently from her high perch; she is something so much more than royal. From her obscure point, she doesn't hear the drunken songs, nor the obnoxious chatter of gamblers; she watches over her kingdom solemnly - bewitching gaze questioning, but she doesn't look outwardly worried. Internally, she's fighting a war with herself.

Her fingers itch for a cigarette, and she honestly feels sick from the withdrawal, but she's so much stronger than to give into temptation; even if her hands shake by her side, even if she had to bitterly bite her tongue when anger got the best of her. Slowly, her hands drift – hesitantly, curving over the flat of her stomach in thought. She frowns hard, eyes narrowing in self-loathing. And for the moment, she doesn't find the city's beauty comforting.

A miscalculation. Something she thought would never catch up to her. Motherhood.

She keeps her secret harbored in her heart, lips pressed like a seal. She's pregnant. Pregnant in the worse of ways. What kind of fucked-up individual did she have to be if she was exposed to procreation with the man who started it all; her fingers trace evenly down her abdomen. She's thinking back on Arcade's expression, how he looked at her with pity when he brought forth test results and asked her, as serious as he could be, _"What do you want to do from here?"_

Six smiled. She always smiled. Even if the odds were not in her favor and she wasn't ready to throw her cards down even though they were stacking against her, because she was about to lose it all in one fold and she was in love with the feeling of self-loss. Even if her child's father skipped out of town on one of his notorious disappearing acts; she's seduced to danger, the art of not finding love in a lawless land.

Hearts of authority should not be lured away by the simple pleasures of intimacy and love.

She didn't love Benny. Never did. But he was the only one who understood her haunting mind, because he's the one who made it that way; the man is pure evil in his most charming and best dressed of ways. He wouldn't make a good father, so she keeps that secret. Hoping, praying, Benny will never find out.

Six listened out for ED-E's hovering, his droned beeping in the distance caught her attention; the woman smiled, turning away from the window to greet her robotic companion. Her hand brushes the side of his metal paneling, affectionate in her own way; nothing artificial came from Six's emotions when it involved those she cared about.

"Hey there, little guy. Glad you finally came up to give me some company. Melody didn't give you any trouble while she got ready for bed?" Six's voice softens, hand pulling away from her 'bot. She listens to his beeping, a secret communication amongst the two, and Six listened intently. He tells her that Melody went to bed without fuss, as always. That the little girl asked for Six while she followed ED-E up the elevator that led her to her bedroom like clockwork, but she clocked out fast – quick to dreaming in her dimly lit room.

"Poor thing," Six adds, turning back to the window that overlooked her domain; her arms crossed over her breast, and she fell into deafening silence again, engrossed with the flickering, gaudy lights that flashed in patterns. The glow of the city humbled her as much as it unnerved her. And after a given moment of peace, ED-E beeps again, drawling in conversation.

"Am I all right?" The rare sight of Six's perplexed face tilted towards the eyebot again, eyes straying, always returning back to New Vegas like a longing, damaging love. "I – don't know." ED-E feels rather confident tonight, sarcasm in his undertones, pointing out, ' _You're human. That's something I believe you should know.'_

"You're so charming, ED-E. Really know how to take a gal's feelings inconsideration." Six sighs, feeling defeated even if she held all the power with a small smile. She was a courier who delivered messages, and somewhere along the lines, from waking up in Goodsprings to standing from her current perch, she became the message. "I'm getting soft, ED-E. Been thinkin' about takin' arms and traveling again."

ED-E expressed his concern with Melody; if Six was gone, who would take care of her? Then made it known he refused to leave her side – that wherever she went, the 'bot would be close behind. Six laughed at that, and it brought comfort to the eyebot. "I'm talkin' vacation, tin can. Been breathin' all this New Vegas air for too long. Somethin' I should talk over with Yes Man, I'm sure." Six ponders, slowly nodding her head with some conclusion. Somewhere she can go without the eyes of New Vegas glaring down at her in her _untimely_ crisis. "Yea, yea. That's right. A vacation. Been meanin' to drop by on some friends…"

Six reaches out again to touch the side of ED-E's rounded body; her hand lingers longer this time.

She wasn't weak in wanting to keep something she knew that belonged to her.


	6. Chapter 6

**No God on Sunday**

 **Summary:** _The band strikes, and one's holding the microphone with tears in her eye, while those around her partner up and laugh and whisper and sway – listening to her drown in her own words, "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The other stares heavenward, watching ghost far older than she; instead of counting stars she counts scars left over by the war; she can only recite prayer._

 **Aries "Courier Six."**

 **V**

 _ **Aries "Courier Six"**_

 _Soda Pop sometimes sings to Aries._

 _With a rough voice, he murmurs to her, holding her close. He's all soft – even with the deterioration of his vocal cords. His voice strums forlorn, and he's afraid that one day his baby will be too scared of him to listen to him._

 _He's losing his hair. He's going through changes that physically hurt him, and with altercation, he begins to question the value of his own life while he holds on to his daughter. With morbid curiosity, he wonders if Jamie Leigh was still alive, would she still love him? He already felt like he was losing his leadership among the group; there's been whispers and not so subtle gossip about him losing his touch._

 _About him being weak._

 _Soda Pop almost wants to cry when his daughter turns to him with a smile and finds no fault in his characteristics, his disfigured expressions that's all too trying and weathered. And it all began with his eyes; light gray under the sun, his gaze slowly died out to glossy vexation and chronic redness, fading milky. Aries gets her red hair from him; his was shaved on the sides, long down the middle and held together with a rubber band; every time he runs his fingers through his hair, he pulls out more loose strands from the root._

 _He's lost weight, and everyone can tell._

 _His handsome features are left hollow; he touches the side of his face with precautions fingers, feeling gaunt. His cheekbones protrude, but still, his daughter dares not forsake him._

 _"I've never talked to a ghoul before," Aries notes, innocently. She's touching the sides of his face, small thumbs tracing the lining of his cheekbone. Her head tilts when she examines his eyes, and mentions that now both of her father's eyes matches Mel's, but he informs her he can still see out of them, while Mel could not. When he lost his nose, Aries panicked with good reason, but was settled by a rough hand combing through her messy hair._

 _"Well, now you're related to one." Soda Pop chuckles without mirth, but Aries doesn't know this, so she laughs along, because she likes it when she sees her father happy._

 _"Are you okay, Daddy? Are you in pain?" Aries never recoils in disgust, she continues her investigation, never shy to voice her questions. And when she finds all her curiosities sated, she falls into her father's lap, throwing her arms over her father's shoulders and clings to him for comfort; her fingers curl into his duster, finding the aroma of his stale cigarettes comforting._

 _He was her 'home.'_

 _"Naw, baby. I'm fine. Just ain't as pretty as I used to be."_

 _"I still think you're pretty," Aries deflects, mumbling against the rough fabric at her father's shoulder._

 _"Is that so?" Soda Pop laughs, but this time he means it; he feels a little silly over the compliment his daughter tried to supply him in retaliation. He squeezes his daughter close to his chest, tucking his head down to where his forehead touched the curve of her neck, and after a moment of silence, he lifts his gaze to kiss the side of his daughter's face. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"_

 _Aries doesn't respond to his question, intently listening to her father's brittle voice that he carried; he sounds familiar, but different. He looks like death; decay marring his features, skin rough, and he apologizes, frequently, if he ever scares her._

 _She only assures him that he could never scare her. She just wants him to sing._

 **-x-**

Six sometimes sings to Melody.

Voice heavy with melancholy; precautions fingers thread through dark hair, smoothing out tangles with an old brush. Six holds vanity. She fears the dawn of time. And the two of them stare out the almighty window, stars blotted out by the gaudy flash of New Vegas lights from below, finding comfort on the top of Six's covers.

Six sings about the grave that never captured her and the ghosts that inhabit the darkening horizon of the Wastelands. There was something haunting about her voice that bled into the deafening silence of an empty casino, bathed in dim-red lights and the permanent expressions of robotic guards.

She whispers her lyrics like a mother who loves her child, telling stories through song and safe touches. ED-E's ominous buzzing catching notes, and Melody is almost certain she'll understand him like Six does someday.

 _"Then I looked way down the river saw the people dressed in white._ _  
_ _I knew it was God's people 'cause I saw them doing right."_

Six has blood on her name. She shouldn't be this kind; the woman lingers with an air of burned ash and heavy alcohol, hollow-point smiles and fabled, foreign tales spun by her tongue. She has long red hair that spills over her shoulders, lipstick stained napkins litter her bright vanity, black dresses leading to her bed. She's enraptured to the call of lying, thievery and knife-picketed tables, because she wants to prove a point. The pinpoint of her demise is nothing more than just a scar souvenir, kissed lightly on her frontal lobe.

A constant reminder.

Six holds beauty without a proper name. Six holds beauty that interlocks with sheer terror, because that's just her favorite pastime. And while she has no history to recollect on, she makes due by making new ones along the way, telling Melody, she's very important to this development.

Six likes to mention that Melody makes her feel human.

 _Human._

A woman who surrounds herself in the comforts of artificial life, because they've never done her wrong; banter exchanged between her and ED-E, and even Yes Man makes use of Six's chattering mind with proper obedience, and dare she imply – curiosity? His sarcastic quirks began to seem meaningful.

Under Six's rule, Yes Man isn't as prone to following demands from just _anybody_ , running proper protocol on assertiveness – stretching the proverbial helping hand, he gives Six guidance.

 _Still._

Even with all her malicious intent; her vulgar ways of doing things to get her way. She has a good heart where it counts. And the way she hums…

Melody feels tired and safe, leaning into Six's motherly touch, enjoying the smooth motion of her hairbrush. And after she's done singing, and she's ready to turn the lights off and let the securitrons take over her domain, she's talking – hoping to catch Melody's favor.

"I've been thinkin', baby girl." Six murmurs, though her voice bled whimsical; there's a soft smile to go along with her soft words. She's all sorts of contradictions between evil and lovely. Her modulated, smoke voice usually puts Melody to sleep.

"Y-Yes," Melody clears her throat, listening to Six while she pulled back to leave her brush on a dresser closes to her bed.

"Been thinkin' on a vacation. Be nice to get out of this casino, eh? It'll be you, me, Follows-Chalk and ED-E. Remember Boone? He's running caravan guard, thought we catch his. And Dr. Arcade? Well, he's been talkin' about runnin' with us, too. Got a place out yonder in Utah; betcha you'd like to see the rain?" Six's drawling back the covers now, gesturing for Melody to slip through the bedding; she complies, moving between the clean bedding almost seamlessly.

"It rains in Utah," Melody's small voice replies, an air of disbelief settling between the woman who won it all and the little girl learning it all. Six's seen more of the world than Melody; she's an odd retired courier with quirks and enemies, she's danced the Mojave sands and gambled her life away every day, because Six honestly couldn't help herself.

Anything that Six had to say, Melody listen to it all in like scripture.

"Got little fish that swim the rivers, too. Sounds fake, right?" Six chuckles; she slides into bed right next to Melody, and from the distance, Yes Man dims the fixtures of the casino and ED-E's buzzing doesn't seem as loud now. "I couldn't believe it myself the first time I stumbled into this camp. Follows-Chalk knows more about it than me. He lived there for a bit on that plot of land I'm talkin' about."

-x-

 _They turn on him._

 _The sound of a gun cocked back is almost ominous on the barren plains; multiple barrels are raised in attention, silent threatening with great ammunition strength. On one end of the gun stands a militia of treason, adjacently from that, stands a ghoul holding his daughter. Twenty to one ghoul. They stand outnumbered._

 _"You're weak now, Soda Pop. All this waitin' is making us hungry. We're starvin' out here! There's no caps to be gained under your sickness," a man bites at his harsh words, voice gravelly with age and cigarette smoke; dirt stained his teeth; his name is Tar. "You're a ghoul. No better than the trash we throw out."_

 _Soda Pop stands without fear. Stands upon the lands of mutiny and sickening revolution. His rough arms holds his daughter a little closer, her face tucked down to press against her father's shoulder in horror; she tries to hold back her whimpers, tries to hold back the warm tears that burned at the sides of her eyes. She whispers 'Daddy' against the fabric, and he soothes her by running his hand over her curved spine._

 _Aries saw her former Raider family kill Deer for standing up for her father; that's when she first discovered hatred._

 _The sands beneath them ran with her uncle's blood. The people around them didn't care._

 _She hated them all. The tears that she shed now were more out of frustration than terror. Her fingers curl over her father's hard armor, and continues to look away, eyes chasing after a horizon that was sucked down by the damaging earth._

 _It could be her last horizon._

 _"Soda Pop has been good to us!" Tali cries. She's held back by Mel's demanding hand. "Let 'em go! We don't have to kill 'em. Let – let the Wastes devour 'em." Tali shrugs out of her wife's hand, and without fear her voice trembles on a sob; she runs up on her fellow Raider and pulls the barrel of his gun down, pointing it at the ground. With trigger-happy eagerness, Tar's finger twitches over the trigger and he fires a round into the ground._

 _Tar's elbow knocks Tali back which causes her to stumble, skirting across the gravel, pulling herself away. "Get off me, bitch. Or you'll be joinin' the ol' man over there." His gun points in the direction of Deer's corpse, body still warm and fresh under the falling sun._

 _Tali's teeth grit on impact, and when Mel's silent disapproving figure comes closer to brace her, she pushes her away. "Don't fuckin' touch me," she snaps at her partner, eyes averting towards the ground in mild shame. "Y'all know this is wrong! We don't have to help 'em, all I'm askin' is that we leave 'em out here. And if they show up – then you can execute 'em. I swear they won't be any trouble, and if I'm wrong, I'm willin' to die with 'em. Cause I would never turn my back on my leader like the rest of you cowards!"_

 _"Tali-," Mel tries her luck at consoling her wife again._

 _"Don't you fuckin' talk to me," Tali's eyes dart back up, sneering at her. "You didn't just betray me, you betrayed our baby girl we helped raised. Our baby!" There ain't no way for you and I to bring in babies, and you ruined it for me."_

 _There's a titter of whispers passed around the group, while some said yes, others agreed with Tali. Because what's worse than execution out on the Wastes?_

 _Surviving alone with a forgotten name._

 _Tar turns his head to the side with a jerk, telling the rest to shut up and let him think. After a moment of mulling and an inhuman smile later, the man smiles and slowly nods his head in agreement; he knows Soda Pop has never done anything alone, not without the help from the rest of the group. He raises his gun and threatens, "Take you and your brat out of here. If I see a hair of you, I'm killin' your kid in front of you, then I'm offing you."_

 _Soda Pop didn't need to say anything; he simply turns and nods his head once to Tali who still sat low to the ground. Aries looked over her father's shoulder, staring down the man who robbed her father's pride._

 _She'll get her revenge._

 _-x-_

"Six. Baby. You're breaking my heart," Swank is all too confident and pulls a charming smile in the face of parting news, but Six can callout his disappointment; his stance holds true to a high-roller fumbling up on his last chips, just when his lucky hand slipped and he's down on a month's salary pay, he's still thinking he has a champagne taste compared to beer pocket money. He's leaning on the rail of the stairs that descended into the row of gambling tables, idly watching his patrons waste their caps on rigged games, tipping free drinks so they'd be drunk enough to _continue_ losing. His arms cross over his chest in mild defeat, glossy black dress shoes click together when he applied his entire weight against the steel railing.

"Oh, don't give me that look, Swank." Six bites back on a different meaning of her smile; she's a little amused, a little touched, that her partner in business was going to miss her. Hell. She was beginning to regret not sleeping with him; she would have found better luck with Swank than with Benny when it came to the sway of the heart, and the power that drawled out of him from the style of New Vegas. "I'll bring ya back a surprise when I return." If her baby lives, she'll have one hell of a surprise.

When drinks are added into the equation with pretty flashing lights, and smoke-kissed lips are stamped against the neck, falling into someone's bed just seemed the most reasonable thing to do. Swank was all charm with no proper moves; still, Six oddly found a reasonable friend. Someone she could enjoy shows with, and pass stories on with a hint of gossip like some rich caravan's wife.

What she and Swank were shooting for was mutual respect and elegant work ethic in a city full of lights and liars; a city built up on bloody soil, toiled away by the rich and powerful. A beacon to ring in sin, and for those who followed the call of the city out in the middle of nowhere, brought caps.

"Must be pretty damn important for ya to go ghost on me like Benny. Baby, I got feelings, you dig?"

Six steps closer and from someone looking in it could be played off as intimate, but Six has never been one to show gratitude; Six being nice was considered a privilege. But her arms garnishes Swank's shoulders, and she hugs him and leaves a ghost of a kiss on his cheek, telling him, "You'll do me proud in my stead. I'll write, so you best reply."

"For you, baby? Anything."

 _-x-_

 _Soda Pop walked ten miles in one hard and endless journey; a straight shot towards the west with his scavenged supplies on his back, his sniper over his shoulder, a shotgun strapped to his thigh, and his young daughter in his arms; they met a few sympathetic traders halfway through the journey who were more than eager to share their supplies for a child; however, they were baffled to find a ghoul traveling alone with a child._

 _Soda Pop had to clarify he wasn't so lucky with his dealings in radiation exposure and that Aries was his daughter; he had her before his changing, and that his wife died by the hand of Raiders._

 _Finding kindness out on the Wastes is an oddity._

 _Though, Soda Pop never mentioned that he was a former Raider; he figured best to keep it a secret while he traveled alone with Aries._

 _The traders asked if he wanted to hitch a ride on the back of their caravan, and Soda Pop wasn't in the right spot to turn down such a generous offer; father and daughter spends four days traveling with a group of traders, estimating fifty miles away from their old camp._

 _Soda Pop helped secure the travelers in their own journey, taking sharp shots at Fiends and the creatures that haunted the grounds._

 _On the fourth and final day, Soda Pop felt like he was getting too comfortable, and explained that he and his daughter will walk the Wastelands alone for now on; the traders were sad to see them go, expressed their worry for a little girl traveling into the unknown with her lone father that looked for land to settle. But there was nothing that they could do or say to sway them to stick around a little longer. So they offered more supplies: old bedding for the cold nights, dried meats and a few cans of purified water to keep them going for another two days._

 _Soda Pop says his thanks and gathered his daughter._

 _They walk for three hours, making up games to pass the time; Soda Pop asked his daughter to guess what he was thinking of, giving hints on colors and sizes. Or Aries would point out the formation of clouds that hung heavy in all that blue heaven, applying them to the creatures that she saw and her father killed on her journey._

 _They come across an old and abandoned shack; the door was knocked off the hinges and creaked with the low blow of a gale. When Soda Pop walked up the wooden stairs with curiosity, he took in every sound of old wood groaning in age under his boots._

 _"Stay on the porch, baby. If you see anyone comin', you best yell for me." Soda Pop carefully put_ _s his daughter down; her hands are reluctant to leave his shoulders._

 _"Daddy?" Aries cries, shaking her head slowly in disagreement. Soda Pop pulls a face, smiling kindly down at his daughter to reassure her. His rough fingers threads through his daughter's hair, giving her a gentle pat. "I'm scared."_

 _"See Daddy's gun? Well, it ain't just for show. I just need to check if this house is safe for us to sleep in. It's gonna get real cold tonight. And I bet you're hungry. Once we settle down, I'll fix you up somethin' to eat. Seen some gecko scurry out yonder." The barrel of his shotgun rests over his shoulder, finger hooked into the trigger. He stands a little higher now, pulling a bigger smile in hopes to sooth her._

 _He hates leaving her outside, but he wants to make sure the house was safe to enter and bunker down for the night._

 _When Soda Pop opened the busted door, he took in the sight of the old shack, sizing up its worth. Wasn't too bad. Hell, with a little love, this shack could be downright homey. The dust and the smell of mildew was a sure sign of abandonment, not a sign of life roaming through the rooms._

 _He wasn't taking his chances, though. Not when he has his daughter to worry about._

 _There's old furniture turned over: a suitable couch, a tattered rug and a few rusted pots that could have been used for cooking and drawing water. There's a single bed in one corner of the room._

 _Soda Pop holsters his shotgun, breathing a sigh of relief, but still on edge._

 _This shack could be a permanent setup; when he was done with his investigation, he quickly paces back to the entrance of the shack, embracing his daughter and carrying her inside._

-x-

Six lets her sniper dangle off her shoulder when she leans down to pick up Melody for a boost, settling her on the tailgate of an old trader's wagon; for safe measures, Six reaches out her gloved hand to touch the side of the little girl's face, softly stroking the area with her thumb. The little girl looks back at Six's gasmask, and something in that tender motion leads her to believe that the older woman was smiling sweetly under that mask, right at her and only her. And like a child in need of attention, Melody indulges the touch and leans into Six's palm.

Melody has that strong urge to call her mom, but she decides not to voice that title.

Not yet.

"You're doin' a mighty fine job, baby girl. It's gonna be a long haul, and without any trouble, I'd say we'll reach our destination in a good three weeks," Six notes. She pulls Melody's luggage off her other shoulder, leaving the girl to quickly recover her belongings, pressing her bag to her chest to subside her frayed nerves. "Now, I want ya to scoot on in the back when I close up this here tailgate, make friendly with your neighbors. I'm gonna walk the side of the wagon, keeping point with the other caravan guards. But don't you worry, ED-E is going to stick with you, and I won't be far."

Melody doesn't verbally reply, but she slowly nods in understanding, jolting from the shrill call of the leader of the caravan, letting them know it was time to go. Six pulls the hatch up, and gave the wooden wagon a few pats to let the little girl know everything was going to be OK.

"If you need me, you best tell ED-E. Don't worry, he'll understand what you're askin', got it? I'm going to be over there with Boone and Arcade, you got the toughest crew out on Wastes watchin' your back. Best remember that, baby." Six gives her a reassuring wave, and Melody backs up on the wagon 'til she's almost bumping her neighbors; they're a traveling group of musicians who happened to be in the mood for adventure, wanting to check out Utah's tribes and share their brand of music.

"Let me ask ya, little lady, was that Courier Six? _Thee_ Courier Six?" The oldest of the members asked, his undertones all smooth and uplifting, had a voice that was truly inviting. His dark fingers strum over the strings of his instrument once, adjusting the pitch ever so often to keep his hands busy. "She was awfully fond of you. Didn't know she had a kid of her own, didn't seem the type." The man mumbles the last of his sentence, keeping his kind smile fixed on Melody.

"Can't be. Courier Six has to be, what? Twenty-three? She's still a baby herself," The only female in the group spoke up, feeling rather causal, chewing on the end of her burning cigarette, flicking the ash off to the side; it hung loosely from her two fingers.

"Eh, you sayin' people can't have youngin's real young? Naw. My Ma was only eleven when she had me. Sick sonabitch jumped her when she was just a kid outside her daddy's farm, had his fun and ran off. The family always talked that it could have been some lone Raider lookin' to get his fix," Another man spoke, shrugging his shoulders over such a heavy topic. This man was skinny, missing an eye that was covered up with an old bandanna; Melody didn't like the low hum of his voice. "Eh, little lady? How old are you?"

"I'm -," Melody breathes, feeling rather small underneath three sets of eyes. She tries to remember her birthday, tries to guess her age, but she's been a slave for far too long; it was just something no one kept up with. "I'm nine." She's then nervously tugging at the hem of her oversize shirt that Six let her have; she told her it would be something comfortable to travel and sleep in.

"A'ight," the skinny man nodded, pleased with Melody's answer and he gives her a reassuring smile, "Let's hypothetically say that Courier Six is just twenty-three, and her baby right there is nine; who's the say it isn't impossible she had her at – what? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

The older man kicked at the thin man with heel of his boot, "You best shut your mouth, boy. We got a lady with us, and The Lord knows I ain't talkin' about Bones."

The only woman in the group, Bones, nodded her head towards the older man, "You're real sweet on me, Boss. You and Kent both really know how to win a lady's heart."

Kent almost chokes on a laugh, "You ain't no lady. Closes you'll get me to callin' you a lady is when I'm callin' you a bitch. Got that face of a dog."

Bones shrugs at that, unmoved by the jab. She then grinned and had a good laugh at that. "Say, little lady, what's your name? The name's Bones. The old man's name is Boss, here. And the ugly sonofagun next to me is Kent." They all meant to be kind in their own way, and while Six wasn't close for comfort right now, Melody straighten her poster to find a sense of confidence.

"My name is Melody."

"It's your first time travelin', little lady?" Boss asks, still strumming away at his strings, not particularly looking for a tune, and Melody nods.

"No worries," Kent added, "We're all travelin' this scene, consider yourself with the band. And like what your Ma said to you just now, we got your back."

 **A/N: I'm real sorry if y'all were expecting Mabel's view in this chapter. I'm going to give one more Six Chapter, then hopefully spit out three chapters with Mabel.**

 **The next chapter will have her talking about Yes Man and about Boone and Arcade traveling.**


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